


Of Wyrm-Tongued Ravens

by Headwig1010



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bittersweet, Bittersweet Ending, Character Study, Dragon Sickness, Dragons, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarf History & Lore, Dwarven Politics, Dwarves, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:13:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 23,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26267029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Headwig1010/pseuds/Headwig1010
Summary: 'It does not do to leave a live Dragon out of your calculations, if you live near him.' J.R.R. TolkienEspecially if, you yourself, arealsoa Dragon...
Relationships: Bard the Bowman/Thranduil, Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Kíli (Tolkien)/Tauriel (Hobbit Movies)
Comments: 61
Kudos: 128





	1. An Unwelcome Visitor

**Author's Note:**

> A sound that had haunted Thorin’s darkest dreams follows him into the waking world bringing with it a new opportunity in its landing but at a terrible cost...

Ered Luin awoke to a _roar_ echoing down from high in the mountains, amplified by the ancient rock which had housed the Broadbeams for centuries and, now by fate rather than choice, the House of Durin.

And it was those of that fallen house that _froze_ at the sound of that roar, their hearts freezing in their chests, their lungs struggling against the _memory_ of smoke and the inferno that had _destroyed_ them.

"Dragon!" Came the terrified cry from the tallest watch tower, which was soon drowned out by the flurry of screams and the pounding of feet as the Dwarrows armed themselves or attempted to find _any_ available shelter.

A moment later and the beast finally burst into view, flying high and fast through the clouds only to swoop down and...

Completely _miss_ the settlement.

It didn't turn, it didn't rise only to dive down again with greater speed, no...instead it _landed_ , with some pomp, atop the large rock that bisected the Great River in two and it... _waited_.

A terrifying pause, a beat...one...two...three and then it spoke in a rolling, almost childishly cruel voice. "Thorin Oakenshield? Are you there? I'd like a word, if you'd be so kind."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thorin had often awoke to a roar ringing in his ears, fire lapping close to his flesh, jerking him up out of his sweat soaked sheets, muscles locked in terror yet _again._

Every other morning, after those first gasping breaths, had brought him _silence,_ ; Had brought him a few blessed _moments_ to _breathe_ and let those jagged memories dull _just_ enough for him to function.

But, on this day, a roar had _followed_ him from his dreams...

The next few desperate minutes were a blur of metal, fear and _utter_ despair that his people, with the ash of Erebor _barely_ blown from their lips, were to be slaughtered yet _again_.

Kili and Fili had been sent away, despite their desperate protestations, but the boys were _needed_ , the line of Durin would _not_ die in dragon fire, not while Thorin drew breath.

And he wouldn't perish without a fight.

But no fight was to be had.

_No._

He was being _summoned_.

Snarling, Thorin advanced to the water's edge, flanked by Dwalin, who was practically vibrating with barely restrained hatred and Dìs, who's rage was a cold, terrifying thing that seemed serene on the surface but held something pure and _terrible_ beneath.

The Drake itself was an _ugly_ thing; It was a sickly grey with lacklustre scales, peeling horns and withered wings; it was smaller than Smaug, a third of that monster's size in fact but it still held the same malevolence in it's golden, fey eyes.

"There you are," it purred, voice dripping with disdain, "'the King under the Mountain,' I'm _truly_ honoured." It cooed, before bowing its head in a mock bow.

"And it will be _my_ honour to slay you _wyrm_ , if that is why you dare summon me so." Thorin growled, Deathless drawn, poised to do exactly that.

"An honour? _Yes,_ it would be but, disregarding the fact you would fail, I am _not_ here to slaughter you. I am here, infact...to _bargain_."  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  


Sünna's life, thus far, had been rather _dull_ if they were being honest with themselves. Being a... _lesser_ dragon carried little glory, plentiful violence and, often, death to serve as a meal for a greater brethren.

But if brute strength was not on their side, their _mind_ was all they had and Sünna was _not_ one to waste the only treasure they'd _ever_ claimed as theirs.

It seemed as if their request had shaken the dwarves worse than their fire, a fact that delighted the drake immensely. Truthfully, it was _pathetic_ that they were _not_ attacking them; After all a _grounded_ dragon, was, more often than not, a _dead_ dragon.

But no, Dwarvish _honour_ would never have allowed for such base brutality.

And so, Sünna was treated to the rather _bemusing_ sight of the dwarvish battalion attempting to respond _diplomatically_ to their declaration.

_"Bargain?"_ Oakenshield spluttered first, as they'd expected, all shorn grief and cracked rage.

"You expect me to believe a _Dragon_ would _bargain_ , all your filth do is destroy and steal-

"-and _where_ has that left us?" Sünna drawled, dismissive, "down to a _single_ 'Great Drake' atop _one_ hoard upon which he grows fat...and _complacent_."

At that, they smiled, all teeth and no warmth. "Something we could _both_ benefit from."  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  


Thorin felt hatred curl thickly between his teeth, threatening to _choke_ him.

For, as vile as Smaug's purpose was, he had, at least, been _honest_.

_This_ snake was not; Cunning, coddling, _daring_ to come here speaking pretty words of _bargain._

Yet _another_ creature demanding the Dwarves undersell their rubies and diamonds to save those of their blood and hearth.

"And _you_ would seek to usurp him?" Thorin sneered, gazing over the emaciated dragon once more and scoffing at the idea, the great Wyrm would consume it in but one snap of its jaws.

"Yes," the Drake drawled, "but not... _directly_ , I am _not_ one for beginning fights I will inevitability lose, I'm no _Dwarf_."

Thorin surged forward at that, only just held back by the restraining arm of Dís who, now as then, did not flinch from the Dragon's eye.

"Then what, _Dragon_ , are you here to propose?" Dís asked, her voice ringing with the might of Durin, prince and heir.

Considering, the Dragon shifted, its whip-like razor tail lazily cutting through the water as it turned to better address her.

"You have a Dragon in your kingdom _you_ cannot kill and that Dragon is atop a hoard that _I_ want. I propose I help you kill Smaug, in exchange for taking over ownership of said hoard."

"WE WILL _NOT_ SACRIFICE OUR HOME FOR ANOTHER DRAGON!" Thorin roared, the earth below seeming to shake and echo his rightful rage at this _obscene_ proposal.

A beat and then the Dragon began to laugh, its great head shaking with the rasping, ugly sound. "Oh you poor thing," it simpered, "I don't want your _'home'_ , I _want_ your _gold._

Its eyes narrowed upon him, now but slits of fire. "I can tolerate an _infestation_ living above it."

Luckily, it was Dís who spoke next, her voice hardened into diamond, "and when our 'infestation' grows to overwhelm you? When you too grow 'fat' and 'complacent?'"

But this subtle threat didn't seem to affect the Wyrm, instead, it merely smiled at her, voice aching in the cruelty only reality can have.

"' _Grows_?' Nay, you have not the women, nor the living babes, nor the friends. You are a cast out and alone people."

It's head tilted, mocking. "Tell me, did the _Elves_ rally to your defence? The Men? Nay, _I_ will protect my hoard and, by default, _you_ , which is far more protection then any other Race have ever offered."

"Besides, you will have all died out _long_ before I grow 'fat' and 'complacent', no I need _not_ fight you, I need but **wait...** "

And it was those words, the awful, unspoken truth of them that drove Dís to take a step back, even as the dragon continued, clearly relishing every word.

"So, do you die out here in this pit of iron slag...Or do you die among the last _whisper_ of Dwarven glory? No, don't waste my time answering, we all know which the King under the Mountain will choose."  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  


Sünna sensed, rather than saw, the Dwarf king fold, a reminder of the cold, undeniable reality of his position snatching the ground from underneath his feet.

He'd chosen, as they'd expected.

"I will have terms Dragon," he spat at them, all incompetent rage and gnashing teeth and oh wasn't that _precious?_ And certainly worth infuriating just a little more...

"Sünna, if you please, it is _most_ rude to bargain without using my name."

And oh, didn't that _fluster_ the little king? His _honour_ once more a millstone about his neck, tch, he'd have made a truly _contemptible_ Dragon.

" _Sünna_ ," he replied with mock sweetness coated in contempt, "your _King_ has terms."

"But of course _my liege_ , what are they?" They asked, laying their great head atop their talons like an obedient hound, whip-like tail cutting lazily through the water once more.

Ha! O' bless the poor, _poor_ little creature, growing so very _angry_ at being obeyed, what an _awful_ king he must make.

"You will not kill any of our number," he ground out, practically quaking with fury, "nor will you harm, harass nor rob any within the mountain. You will _stay_ atop the hoard unless _l_ or the current king give you permission to leave it and you will have _no_ part in Erebor's governance, power or trade."

"Agreed."

....  
....  
....

"Just like that?" The sister asked, while her brother floundered in the face of such suspiciously _easy_ acceptance. 

"'Just like that'," Sünna parroted with another cold chuckle, "I, of course, only ask parity of treatment. Also, that I am to be undisturbed, unless you are adding more wealth to the hoard, and that any wealth you need take you replace. I think that most reasonable, don't you?"  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  


No.

Thorin did not.

Was he not simply selling his people? Taking them from refugees into little more than chattel, indirectly serving a _dragon_ , an active threat that would ever live below them?

But then Kili and Fili's faces entered his mind, his rosey faced boys with filthy knees and tangled hair, clothed in little more than cast-off wool and stories of a kingdom they'd never seen.

His sister, beside him as ever, proud and glorious even with the ash from the pre-dawn firepit staining her fingertips. Dwalin, with the pig iron in his axe rather than true dwarvish steel, Balin repairing broken quills because even fresh _feathers_ were beyond his reach.

And so many more, laid low and _kept_ there...

For them, he would endure this humiliation.

"It will do." He choked out, "you have my oath upon my crown and my marrow to honour your terms. Now swear yourself to yours."

The Dragon considered a moment before its whip like tail flicked up in a violent arc, the wicked end barb sinking deep into its own flank, lodging itself between two scales, breaking off one of the many that were cracked and worn before flicking it at Thorin, as though swatting away a fly.

Instinctively, Thorin caught it, fingers staining black with dragon's blood as he studied the pale grey scale, finding it as hard as mithril even in its decrepit state...But yet, so very _brittle._

"My oath," the Wyrm intoned, sounding rather bored. "Pass it on from king to king until I may reclaim it from the last dead hand."

"Or we'll use it to complete your corpse for stuffing you utter bastard," Dwalin growled under his breath, making Thorin's lip twitch in an almost-smile. 

"I accept," he said instead, letting Balin take the scale from him. "Now, enough wasting my time, how do we kill Smaug?"  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  


Sünna had considered this question at a length for many years, lying low in the Withered Heath, plotting and waiting for their time to come, killing other lesser dragons for meat when they could.

And, finally, they had an answer.

"Erebor is a mine is she not?" Sünna asked, rising to sit back on their forlegs, increasing their height over them all, tone imperious. "A _working_ mine who, for the last 80 years, has remained untended, unmaintained...and _unvented_."

Their lip curled with satisfaction as their words sunk into the dwarf before them, their ripples echoing through the host.

"You speak of firedamp?" The king asked, tone losing some of its hostility to its growing excitement. 

"Yes, I do," Sünna replied smugly, tail still cutting through the water behind them in a lazily, self-assured manner. "An odourless, noxious, _explosive_ gas, building up below Smaug for _decades._

You dwarves must have some system for venting it out, why not vent it _up_? Let him breathe it in and breathe it _deep_. Then, simply, goad him to flame and..."

"Bang." The bald dwarf finished with growing glee.

_"Bang."_ Sünna agreed dryly.

"And what if this 'great' explosion _buries_ Erebor?" The sister asked, clearly less impressed then her brother and his followers.

Sünna snorted, utterly dismissive, "you're Dwarves aren't you? Dig it out again." 

After taking a moment to enjoy her indignation at that comment, Sünna added, "besides, have _you_ a better plan? Drown him in molten gold perhaps? Cast him from the air with a net? Sing him to sleep?"

A sharp scoff, "You have not the resources nor the numbers nor the magic. This plan can be accomplished by a suitably small, stealthy and knowledgeable team slipping inside the mountain while Smaug slumbers. Of course, that part, I shall leave that to you."

Sünna rose up onto their feet, flexing their wings. "I will know when Smaug is slain and then I will come and claim _my_ hoard. Good luck Thorin Oakenshield." 

Another smug smirk filled their face, "and _do_ enjoy the walk." 

And with that they took off with such a powerful updraft that it knocked the dwarves back several steps as they swooped into the sky...Only to dive down into the closest field, stealing a cow as they went. Before, finally, vanishing out of sight behind the mountains, heading on the long flight east with one last, terrible roar.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Ziriah for all your help! 💖


	2. Revenge: Both Sweet and Bitter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As his Sister-Son hangs but a moment away from death, Thorin, crownless king, looks on, helpless to save him or himself from the Deflier.
> 
> But there is a shadow growing amidst the clouds...

Dwarves were rare to fall from the Stone.

Not that it _didn't_ happen of course, feet slipped or the mind was addled by drink or fumes but, nevertheless, it remained rare. 

The Stone was theirs to protect and carve after all, it cradled them close and kept their feet deep and steady.

So to now see his sister-son being held over said Stone, the Defiler's blade at his back, his desperate eyes pleading Thorin to _run_ nearly brought the King under the Mountain to his knees.

" **This one dies first**."

("Thorin, Thorin look, in the clouds...")

But how far they had already run, East and _further_ East, companions thirteen and then fourteen, Master Baggins, now Bilbo, at his right, Dwalin, his battle-brother to his left. 

All helpless.

" **Then the brother.** "

("Thorin, can't you see it? Something's coming.")

Made all the more stark after such a victory but a week ago, the venting of the gas, Smaug's _arrogance_ as he breathed the Firedamp in while he taunted them, the inferno that had sent the wretched wyrm, screaming and bleeding from the mountain in search of fresh, clean air...only to be shot down by but a mere _Bowman._

Smaug the Magnificent, dead with nay a whimper.

But then it all began to go wrong, so very _wrong_. 

The dragon fell too hard and too close, crushing Laketown beneath his sheer bulk, giving most no time to flee, their screams of pain and grief echoing up to the mountain.

" **Then you, Oakenshield.** "

("Thorin! Thorin! Blast it all look!")

The closer tragedy of the missing Arkenstone, King's Rite, still _lost._ How he, Thorin, had ordered it's desperate search, something to rally around, something to comfort him before the next dragon came to _pollute_ his home.

And how he'd turned on them all when as the gold called so sweetly to him...

Everything he'd ever lost, _finally_ regained through fire and blood...he was to lose it all _again_ and more, so, _so_ much more...

Fili, O' his fearless little lion.

It should never have been you first...

" **You will die last!** "

("Thorin! A dragon!")

Look at me lad, look at me, I'm here, I'm here and I'm so sorry. The blade drawing back, eyes on me, eyes on-

A spike was flashing through the air, Azog was roaring in pain and then Fili, his sister-son, was _flung_ through the air towards him, staggering, barely caught, one arm about his waist, the Stone keeping him steady.

And then the earsplitting roar as a gout of fire forced the bleeding Azog back into the watch tower, the smell of smoke soaking the air.

"I see the walk went well, Oakenshield...but do try _not_ to get killed just yet. I will _not_ be cheated out of what is _mine._ "

Gratitude.

Rage.

Relief.

Despair.

_Hope._

His sister-sons, Fili, quickly joined by Kili, one arm each, clutching tight as though they were but boys once more, a lull, the Defiler in retreat, for now, and the dragon who had saved him, who had _ruined_ him.

And he only had but one thing to say to it.

" _Thank you._ "

The dragon paused, seeming unable to comprehend him for a long moment, its head tilting slightly, blinking, fundamentally unsettled...

Then it scoffed at him, dismissive, mocking, lipless mouth peeling back to flash cracked, yellowed teeth in a sneer. "Praise me when you _win_ Oakenshield, I will _not_ be saving you twice."

A flick of the head, a sharp updraft and the beast was off... but _away_ from the mountain, down towards the lake...

But Thorin had no time to question, the orcs were come once again, his sister-sons at his side. 

Blades drawn, jaws set and the flash of true dwarvish steel sliced through the air-  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
-Quick and cutting, Sünna flew towards Laketown, the sounds of battle growing quieter and quieter as the silence of death welcomed them to the ruined settlement.

It was utterly still, no rat nor fly dared disturb the corpse of Smaug, his golden eyes hollow out with death.

And Sünna took great, sadistic pleasure in tearing them from his skull.

With a sneer and a rolling growl from deep within their chest they took in the now blinded body once more, their rich, righteous satisfaction slowly curling into disgust. 

Was _this_ truly it?

Their ancient forefather's death had levelled _mountains_ but this, the last _Great drake_ had barely crushed a _town_ , one built of nothing but rot-wood and desperation at that.

Was this all they were now?

No.

_Sünna_ was all they were now, the largest and most powerful dragon alive...

But never before had they felt so very _small._

With a heart-crushing roar of denial and impotent rage, Sünna raised their tail high and brought it _down_ upon the great, broken neck of Smaug. 

Blow, by endless blow, until it hung, pathetic, like a gutted fish by but one strand of flesh and sinew.

A heartbeat.

A sneer. 

An indescribable _ache._

And Sünna raised their tail for the final, despairing blow-  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
-Which Thorin dodged just in time, the Defiler's mace cracking the ice where his head had just been with a sickening crunch, the metal screaming as it was wrenched free for another flailing blow.

Black blood stained the ice beneath Azog's feet, his left shoulder punctured clean through by the Dragon's spike, burnt flesh hanging loose from collar to thigh.

It did not matter if Thorin fell this day.

Azog would also not survive this.

Another desperate clash, both exhausted, both desperate, both fighting to the death.

But these were dwarvish lands, the river was cutting through dwarvish rock and it would not fail its king.

A blow, a stagger and a _twist_ of steel deep under the ribs...

And so fell the Defiler, breaking on the Stone beneath the waterfall.

Revenge.

_At last._

"Uncle! Uncle!" Cried Kili, battle-flushed and bleeding but alive, "look!" His sister-son pointed to the sky, Thorin, expecting the drake once more looked up sharply only to see-

"The eagles, the eagles are coming," Bilbo, brave Master Baggins, breathed, road-thinned chest heaving with the effort of speaking but O' how he smiled...

It seemed the Dwarves were not so alone in this world after all.

And Thorin, wounded in both heart and flesh, gathered him close in a tight embrace. This burglar turned companion turned friend turned-

"Hey! Don't forget me!" Kili laughed before diving into join the hug despite Bilbo's so prim and proper protests, then Fili and, finally, Dwalin, all alive, all in his arms.

The cry of the great Eagles echoing loud overhead-  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
-a shrill, ugly sound of triumph that snapped Sünna sharply out of their bloodlust, sending them staggering back, their weight bringing down the last standing wattle and daub wall behind them with a dull thud.

Muscles tensing, wings flexing, they snapped their jaws, rearing their great head up to the sky, to the threat it now held. 

For though their scales were mithril-hard, their belly dipped in, unjeweled, _soft_ , easily torn through if the talons were sharp and fast enough...

Now denied the pleasure of ripping each encrusted gem from Smaug's flesh one by one, Sünna took the only other thing they could from the corpse, their tail curling around the black, fletching-sunk arrow and tore it free with a sickening squelch before casting it high and _deep_ into the lake.

For if Sünna were also to meet their death this day, it would _not_ be to the same folly that had felled Smaug.

Victorious yet _nothing_ they rose again, high into the sanctuary of the clouds while death reigned beneath their wings, they soared towards the mountain and the gold, which was _theirs_ at last , finally it was all-  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Over.

It was all over.

They'd won.

...They'd _won..._

Thorin did not know how long he held his brothers, his _family_ , he didn't know who's tears were who, who's arms were tight around him.

It didn't matter, they were alive, they were _alive_ and they were _home_.

Perhaps minutes, perhaps hours, later they parted, each barely able to speak, choked by everything that had happened and what, so very nearly, _had_ happened.

Blinded with relief, Thorin turned and staggered towards the edge of the waterfall, quickly joined at either side by his sister-sons, neither wanting to let him go for even a second.

He closed his eyes and just _breathed_ , just taking it all in.

A moment, two and then...

"Uncle! Uncle! Look!" Thorin's eyes snapped open to follow Kili's pointing finger down to the magnificent, broken doors of Durin that led into Erebor, into his kingdom and his home...

Just as the bloodied, whip-like tail that was snaking through them vanished out of sight...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for everyone reading, leaving kudos and comments. 😊
> 
> And, of course, an ever warm shout out to my wonderful proof reader Ziriah. 💖


	3. Restitution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mountain is won but the fallout begins as Thorin faces the consequences for his unprecedented bargain and as Sünna takes in the wonders and the perils of their new hoard.

Bilbo was the first to sound the alarm, his voice breaking into desperate denial at the sight unfolding below him, as though he could wish away the dragon as if it were naught but a bad dream.

"Bilbo." Thorin interrupted, ever so grateful, yet heartbroken still.

"It's alright, Master Baggins, that dragon is known to me...and we have bargain."

His words were followed by a sharp series of blinks, then that not-quite laugh of the Hobbit's before Bilbo spluttered out. "You-you _knew_ this would happen? All this time, all this _way_ and you didn't _think_ to let me know? 'Oh sorry Master Baggins, a little addendum to your contract, nothing major, just a bloody _dragon_ I just _happen_ to be in cahoots with! Something you might just want to consider before you join this rag-tag company!"

There was no need, Thorin tried at first, rather bravely.

There was no guarantee we would even _make_ it, he tried second when the first was brutally shot down.

You wouldn't have understood, he began third but cut _himself_ short before Bilbo could, unable to follow it through.

...You would not have come. 

He murmured forth, the truth of his fear coming through out last.

"Tch," the not-burglar scoffed, as if that sentiment were not worth sparing a thought for.

" _Of course_ I would have come, you utter git, you know me, 'Mad Baggins of Bagshot Row', crazy as a cookcoo clock. He'd have chased that daft dwarf king all over Middle Earth for any stupid, bloody reason so why need be _honest_ with the likes of him? He's just a sad, middle-aged Hobbit after all, he's certainly no _mighty_ dwarf lord, no one _worthy_ of trust."

A bitter laugh, the sharp snap of hurt footsteps turning to march away, bare feet held tightly by the Stone.

"No."

" _No_. "

Thorin pleaded, dwarf king no more in that heart-wrenching moment but the crownless dwarf prince who'd arrived at Bilbo's door all that time ago.

"Bilbo, wait, I can explain... _please_."

And the Hobbit, scowling but _yearning_ still, did, for not the king but for his fire-forged friend he stopped-  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  


Dead.

This whole kingdom was... _dead_

Fresh air may have whistled loudly through the desolated halls, ghoulishly giving the illusion of life.

But none breathed here but them.

Was triumph truly meant to feel this... _Cold?_

Unwilling, to face that question, let alone its answer, Sünna did not linger long in the destroyed entrance way. 

Rather, they slunk further on, the faint whisper of gold calling to them. 

Deeper and deeper, bones and metal crunching and _giving_ under their feet, sending countless plumes of dust billowing up like-  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
-a lazily plume of smoke about Tharkûn's head, as he puffed upon his ever present pipe, taking his time with it as he regarded Thorin with twinkling, blue-grey eyes.

"It seems I have much yet to learn of dwarves if I can still be so caught off guard by them." He mused, sounding rather _tickled_ by the whole affair, as if it were but a fond campfire remembrance on a long, cold night.

"And I have _nothing_ more I wish to learn of wizards," Thorin replied tersely, having little time to pamper the old man at the moment, especially with all the trials of the day he'd endured...and had yet to endure.

He simply hadn't the strength left in him to _humour._

But, yet, it still earned him a rich, almost paternal chuckle followed by a fresh ring of smoke, the wizard passing judgment without nary needing to speak more then a handful of words.

"I do hope you know what you're doing Master Oakenshield...but I suppose all roads remain untread until they are first walked...Or flown, in this case."

"If you think I tread wrong then simply _say_ so wizard," Thorin began, pride pricked by this 'benevolent' doubt that elders often indulged upon those younger then themselves . "I have no patience or time for your riddles."

"Indeed not," the old sage noted with an almost indulgent puff of his pipe.

"And even the wisest cannot see all ends... especially when they sprout from the strangest of beginnings. But come, we both have places to be."

And with a wry wink and the creak of weary knees he rose, then both turned to the broken stairs of Ravenhill to take the long, perilous descent down-  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
-down, Sünna went, deeper and deeper still, the song growing louder and louder until, _finally_ the rotted, choking darkness gave way to-

_Oh_

**Oh.**

Gold upon gold; an uncounted, _uncountable_ hoard piled so high and so far that it could've drowned Sünna under it without disturbing the surface. 

Beautiful, terrifying and _theirs_.

And O' how it _welcomed_ them, how it cooed, how it soothed away all those aches Sünna had carried in their bones since birth. How it seeped and slipped to fill the gaping, starving maws that had always clawed daggers through their gut. The raw _hunger_ that neither food nor water could ere quench.

Complete.

Whole.

_Hoarding._

Deeper and deeper until they were submerged to the snout, truly nourished for the first-time in their life...

But it was not enough, the gold was growing cold too quickly, they were feasting too much, too deeply.

_More!_

Lumbering into the air, they dived blindly into the next pile, tearing it dry of song, of strength, only to rise again to the next, flying, _flailing_ across the vast hall, drunk on plenty, barely able to dodge-  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
-the cup flying at his head.

"What the fuck were you thinking laddie?"

Which, had been the most _predictable_ reaction to the dragon Thorin received at least.

The day was dragging ever onwards, the last fires of battle being smothered as the bitter, crushing work of counting the dead and the dying began. Already the healer's tents and hasty lean-tos were overflowing with the injured. 

Thorin himself had been attended in Dain's own tent by Oin, his cousin at least waiting until he was properly bandaged _before_ he started throwing things at him.

"That I didn't have the support of my kin in this quest and that I would've done _anything_ to get Erebor back." Thorin noted sharply, gazing up at Dain with a near wild look from the low camping stool he rested upon heavily.

"We don't have the strength left to kill it ya know," Dain warned, pausing in his valiant attempt to throw everything not nailed down at his foolhardy cousin.

"We will not need to," Thorin replied with weary, semi-surety. With a sigh, he withdrew the broken dragon scale he had kept over his heart since he had received it, least by chance it stop a well aimed arrow or lucky blade.

"It's oath," he explained, passing it across to Dain.

"...Sickly beastie ain't it?" Dain murmured as he turned the scale between iron-stained fingers, the mottled skin beneath flaking of in small wisps as he stroked it with his thumb, his eyes saying all that he needed to.

After all, hunger had been the one monster to follow Durin's folk the entire way west, belly's used to a diet of rich meat and richer treats left clenched, lock tight about mere horse grains and unrippened berries.

Dain, himself had never starved, where this dragon clearly had and the more desperate the time, the more _desperate_ the bargain one will make...

Sighing, Dain returned the scale before resting his forehead against Thorin's in a private, gentle gesture of love. " _Nothing_ will stand between me and my kin, not pointy eared princesses, moping Bowman or a vagabond dragon." He declared, a sentiment that coaxed a soft chuckle out of Thorin.

"And so I'm safe from any further flying crockery?" He asked, smirking.

"Tch, _Never_."

And then another plate was sailing through the air at him, the now laughing king ducking aside just in time so it landed-  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
-heavily, _far_ too heavily atop something far, _too_ fragile.

With a sharp, startled roar of pain Sünna scrambled out of the hoard to find a large shard of obsidian embedded deep in their gut, their bulk having thoughtlessly shattered the pot buried beneath that pile of gold.

Humiliated and furious, Sünna belched out a gout of fire, an almost childish gesture of denial at their own stupidity. 

But, cold hard sense soon took over, a lifetime of survival instincts having no time for their wounded pride. 

The dwarves could _not_ learn that they were injured, the balance of power too ripe, too new and too charged. They would simply need...treat this, yes, _yes_ they would just need somehow _dress_ the wound and stem the bleeding.

All dragon blood was black, the dwarves wouldn't know the difference between theirs and Smaug's.

But in this hoard of naught but metal and gem, actually _finding_ something suitable would be a task all on its own.

Nevertheless, Sünna, humbled and slowed, rose carefully to their forelegs and began-  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
-searching.

Terrible, fey eyes searching deep into his own, taking his measure...and finding him _wanting._

The Elvinking had had the temerity to _summon_ Thorin himself, royal guard leading him right to the grand tent where three bottles of wine already stood open beside two glasses, one hastily abandoned and smudged with fingerprints.

Thorin was not offered a glass of his own.

"I warned your grandfather what his greed would summon. But it seems _yours_ is a still uncounted magnitude greater than his to so summon a dragon _before_ you even have a hoard to steal."

It seemed elf ears in their spying had overheard his explanation to Bilbo or Dain, it mattered not which, no elf would ever give a _dwarf_ to offer their own fair account of themselves.

But Thorin bore the insult, both spoken and implied, as he had borne countless others, his righteous fury, his immense pride that had fuelled his firey words within the elf's own kingdom could not be repeated here.

Winter was coming. 

And they had no food.

"We have a bargain, the dragon and I. Moreover, l am _not_ beholden to you as to how I manage _my_ affairs within _my_ own kingdom." Thorin replied, as diplomatic as he could muster.

And Thranduil, all pride and height reared, "and when it _betrays_ you Oakenshield? When it lays your people low once more-"

(That was met with a sneer, as if Thranduil truly cared what happened to his people, he was merely making play until he reached his true point.)

"-and then turns its attention to _my_ woods and halls? When _my_ people succumb to your naive folly?"

(And _there_ it was.)

Perhaps a better rested, better fed, better tempered Thorin would've overlooked the further insult for Thranduil's words were not untruthful, despite their judgment.

Perhaps a better treated, better respected, better aided Thorin who had _not_ seen this elf muster an army to his gates not once but _twice_ would have been kinder to him.

But Winter's coming felt far away in the heat of that moment.

And so Thorin, battle-weary and exhausted, instead just softly replied.

"Only _one_ here has betrayed my people...and it was _not_ the dragon."

And that, more then any shouted insult or arrow-tipped threat, caused the Elvenking to step _back_ , appalled at either Thorin or the truth of his words... He did not say which.

" _Get. Out._ "

And the king under the mountain went, Elvish curses blackening the air behind him as he walked away, heading deeper into the camp, the chill of the long night having taken hold, the campfires burning-  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
-low and hot, in a controlled stream of fire.

Sünna's tail held the great gold urn steady, as they slowly melted the metal against their side with their breath.

It was far from the optimal solution but Sünna simply couldn't yet bring themselves to leave their hoard but nor could they find something suitable within as dressing.

So, thinking on their feet, they had searched for the largest, near-pure golden article they could find and pressed it to the now open wound, the blood soaked obsidan shard crushed spitefully under a rock.

And so they waited, patient, the molten metal sinking into their flesh to harden and seal as it cooled, offering some blessed relief from the aching sting.

They had survived worse, they would survive this, as they watched, entranced by the shine-  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
-of the moon upon the lake, the Bowman now king standing alone looking out across it.

And Thorin moved to his side to join him.

They stood in silence for a long moment, simply gazing upon the water, the boatmen unwantingly thrust into leadership and the dwarf who had forced his hand. 

But, rather then anger, confusion or amusement Bard simply sounded...tired.

"Can you guarantee that the dragon will not harm my children or my people?" He asked simply, needing to know nothing more then that.

"No." Thorin replied, the simple question deserving its own simple answer.

"Could _you_ have guaranteed that your people would have left _anything_ for mine had Smaug destroyed us that day?" He asked in turn but with no small amount of sympathy for the man.

"No." Bard admitted, honest and _good_.

Thorin offered him a bitter smile, "then we have a long road ahead of us if we are to rebuild together in peace."

Bard nodded, thoughtful for a moment before he turned to Thorin "and I would not do so as enemies over what may have happened or may yet." 

And then he held out his hand, the Arkenstone glowing softly in his palm.

Which Thorin, with a gasp and trembling fingers, took at last.

_"Thank you."_

It was a small gesture really, in the grand scheme of things, but it was a _start_ such a hopeful, strong-  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
-start.

And now that they had, Sünna found themselves unable to _stop_.

The wound was set yes, glittering and beautiful but they had so much _more_ to make _perfect_ , so many deep scars and loose scales, they would fill them _all_ with gold and then they would _never_ be hungry again.

And so they scavenged, golden urns, rods, plates and ornaments, anything they could hold secure in their tail was sacrificed in this pursuit leaving them blind to all else for uncounted hours.

But even the brilliant gleam of gold could not outshine the Arkenstone.

Nor the reflective eyes of the dwarf king gazing down upon them...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh the poor dears, it's been quite the day! The next chapter will be more of an interlude between Thorin and Sünna before returning to the main plot.😊
> 
> And, as ever, another thank you to my ever patient proof-reader Ziriah. 💖


	4. Here Be Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both caught at a vulnerable moment Thorin and Sünna finally a proper conversation and some of the cracks are filled in...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are firmly in AU territory here folks. All the dragon/arkenstone lore below is a complete fanon invention by me so you have been warned! XD

Time did not stop.

Not... _exactly_ , rather, both dragon and dwarf gazed at each other, the moment stretching out over several heartbeats, the world quiet as it slowly dawned on them both that this would _never_ happen again; Erebor empty, no other living thing within the mountain.

Nothing but them, the gold and the dead.

"...You've missed a spot." Thorin noted, the tentative truce yet holding.

"Yes, I have." Sünna agreed cautiously, slowly setting down the half-melted sceptre as they watched him with wary eyes. "Unfortunately, unlike elves, I have a spine and can only bend so far."

Both took a moment to smile at the mockery of their shared enemy, the air crackling thick with tension, both caught at the edge of desperately _vulnerable_ moment.

"I am not one to see work unfinished." 

An offer.

"But _not_ for free."

Countered.

"No," Thorin agreed, shifting his stance, "for answers to my questions, I will help finish your work."

"You may have three," Sünna allowed, equal in bargain, "but _none_ about my weaknesses."

Understandable.

"But first, as a gesture of good will, one question of my own," Sünna interrupted before Thorin could descend towards them, their tone carrying rather a malicious note of glee. "How much do they all _hate_ you right now?"

"Enough that most would rather we killed each other and be done with it." Thorin admitted candidly, having taken on this burden alone for this reason. For, should his people turn on him for this...they would at least not punish Fili and Kili for his madness.

Sünna threw their headback and laughed, nearly tumbling from their perch from the force of it. "Well then! I had best make use of you while you let live. Come, _blacksmith_ , let us finish this."

But Thorin was stopped from a full approach by the sharp edge of a blood-stained spike against his chest, Sünna tilting their head at him with a reproachful look. "Come now Oakenshield, even a _mighty_ dwarf lord cannot work with his hands full."

And both of their gazes dropped to the Arkenstone, the light of the gem faintly glowing between them.

Then the dragon withdrew, making Thorin set it down _himself_ rather then simply snatch it from him, how very _sadistic_ it was.

"There is no safer place in all of Middle Earth," Sünna intoned sweetly, lazily dragging their tail away just to add salt into the wound.

With a glare strong enough to curdle rock, Thorin let the Arkenstone slip between his fingers to land heavily at Sunna's feet...where they quickly buried it under the far, _far_ lesser treasures until its light was snuffed out.

"No!" Thorin cried, surging forward only to be thrown back by Sünna's tail, sending him flying several feet into the air before crashing into another pile of gold.

Eyes unreadable, Sünna snarled at him as he attempted to to rise, pupils slits, both tensed to spring...

"What _are_ you doing Oakenshield?" They asked, a searching, piercing question that pinned Thorin in place, the fog shifting... _clearing_.

And he staggered, gasping for breath, head pounding hard and raw.

"You are _cruel._ " He accused, lashing out in denial.

"Yes." Sünna agreed but without any triumph, "and I will _not_ tolerate another dragon within _my_ hoard."

At this condemnation, Thorin's knees gave as he collapsed back into the gold, it immediately betraying him by shifting, leaving him sprawled and breathless and _alone_.

No pity was forth coming from the dragon either, rather Sünna abandoned him completely, turning away to shift across the hoard, emptying a large iron urn of its charcoal before dragging it back.

While Thorin lay devastated by his guilt and grief, Sünna set about filling the urn to the brim with gold, which they melted with little fuss.

" _Enough_ Oakenshield, you have work to tend to," Sünna barked at him before letting themselves sink into the gold beside the urn, head close so as to keep it hot.

Staggering, Thorin rose to his feet, heart splintering once more but his hands were turned to purpose.

And so he approached anew, lifting the iron laddle free from its hook at the urn to fill it with gold. 

"My questions," he croaked, swallowing against his dry throat. 

"Ask." Sünna instructed, settling down, curled and content.

"Why did you not side with the orcs and help them claim the mountain? They would surely have served you...?" Thorin began, starting work on the shallowist of scars on Sünna's lower back, the gold poured in a careful, thin stream with an expert eye.

The question was met with an amused snort, "I'm truly _flattered_ by your appraisal of me but...no, those orcs were loyal to a greater force than I. Morgoth guarded his secrets closely, including the nature of our creation. They'd have been torn from my flesh before any those orcs served me."

Thorin considered this, taking the opportunity to look at the drake again, his initial assessment holding even more true up close. The gold now seared into their flesh was the most vibrant part of this creature, a mere shadow compared to Smaug's great and terrible might.

Refusing to feel pity for the wyrm, Thorin asked instead, "Smaug's body is on the lake, atop the-"

"I know," Sünna interrupted with a savage delight, "I severed his head clean off his fat neck. But as for the rest of him? Do not let him touch the water, he will pollute it. No, _skin_ him free of flesh, crack free his scales, strip bone, break him _apart_."

"You _truly_ hated him." Thorin noted with faint surprise, shifting up their back to the next scar, "surely he was related to you, with so few of you left?"

Sünna decided to count that as his second question out of spite for him even asking something so pointless.

"Yes, he was my sire," but before Thorin could speak they immediately cut him off, "and if you attempt to project dwarven family mores on me I will swat you again. We have no _fathers_ or _mothers_ or siblings.

A dragon breeds as a show of strength, from besting the other or so they can later kill and consume the offspring if it dares come to challenge them. Smaug likely consumed his sire when he lost that challenge and I severed his head. It is _no_ more then that."

Thorin couldn't say he was truly surprised by the brutal revelation, it was likely then that the dragons _themselves_ had been the ones most responsible for their own near extinction more than any other race.

"I can sense your pity and I don't care for it," Sünna hissed at him, nostrils flaring. "It _matters_ not, I am no dwarf, do _not_ insult me by thinking of me as one."

Offended at its tone but also, begrudgingly, intrigued, Thorin asked his third and final question.

"So, how _does_ one create a dragon in the first place?"

Sünna twisted their head around to give him a long, incredulous _look_.

A pause and then Sünna laughed, without any malice, just pure _amusement_. "The sheer _cheek_ of you! To ask for knowledge which was denied Sauron, the greatest and most loyal of Morgoth's lieutenants and I am to just tell _you_?"

Thorin, unrepentant, merely shrugged. "We had a bargain and I do not see how it could be used against you, besides, this is a treasure hoard, here is where we put valuable things is it not?"

Sünna slowly settled back down, considering this.

"Very well, it's useless to you anyway but if your curiosity is so important to you..."

They paused for a moment to gather their thoughts, after all, they'd never spoke at such a length before, certainly not about themselves.

"In the beginning we were not as you see us now, we lived in deep caves carved by the first rivers, drawing strength from the glowing mushrooms, star fragments and, rarely, starlight itself. _That_ was the greatest prize, I imagine there were few shafts so-"

"-what by the Stone is a _star fragment_?" Thorin interrupted, startled by the concept.

Sünna rolled their eyes, "they were starlight caught in the young rocks before they hardened with age, barely worth more then mushrooms to bask upon."

"Do any yet survive?"

"Tch, not many I should think, we were a ravenous people. But, _you_ need not look so far for you have one in this hoard right now, worthless though it is. It _baffles_ me you were so reluctant to give it over."

Realization dawned with a heavy thud.

"Wait, you can't mean the _Arkenstone_ is-"

"The dregs of starlight from millennium ago? Yes...wait, _wait_ , don't tell me you thought it was _valuable_ did you?" They cackled loudly, "oh, you poor thing."

"Then what did _they_ value so highly then if these were so worthless?" Thorin snapped, patience long since gone.

"Why, the _sun_ of course." Came the almost mournful reply, "can you imagine Oakenshield? A life mostly underground, hunted when they dared venture outside, living in snatched starlight to suddenly have the whole _sky_ filled with light? To finally know true _warmth_? ...No wonder they started _slaughtering_ each other to claim the highest peaks."

A dark chuckle, "because you see, there was suddenly a _world_ out there to grow fat and strong upon, no more hiding in the dark. The strong took all the best meat, the best mates and the best basking spots; Growing to glorious new heights while the weak were forced to remain underground to avoid being hunted by their now exalted kin."

"So, what happened?" Thorin asked, trying to marry the magnificent creatures Sünna spoke of to the emaciated one before him now.

"Morgoth." Sünna replied softly, "he found the caves you see, found my bitter, _stunted_ kin and offered them the chance for revenge and power on those who'd stolen the sun away from their reach."

"But sunlight hurts dark creatures doesn't it?"

"Yes. They were betrayed of course, the Baskers were destroyed and my kin were corrupted and the sun they had wanted so badly now burnt their tender flesh... But we still chased the warmth, kept on dying trying to reach it. But Lord Morgoth was obliging for he showed us _another_ source of power."

" _Gold_."

"Yes."

"But _why_? To spite the first dwarves?"

"Ha! No. No, you forget what Morgoth had just witnessed, what _treasure_ had driven the Elves to do to each other, kin killing kin? He was _inspired_."

"The oath of Fëanor," Thorin breathed, connecting the dots.

"Yes, ridiculous, overblown thing it was but _imagine_ a creature and its descendants bound by an oath of _service_ to Morgoth, ever hoarding gold to try and mimic the sun but never succeeding. How very _driven_ it would be? How angry? How destructive? _That_ is what we come from Thorin Oakenshield...And now you know. Congratulations."

There was a long silence as Thorin considered all he had heard, not speaking until the last of Sünna's scars were sealed shut with gold.

"...Does the sun still burn you?" 

"No, but it is like...eating food without a tongue, you know something is missing but you cannot even sense what." 

A pregnant pause.

" _Don't_ , don't you dare." Sünna hissed at him, low, furious, _desperate_. "I will _not_ be pitied! _I_ defeated Smaug! _I_ have taken his hoard! I will not be _lain_ low at your feet!"

Then they were taking off, knocking Thorin back, the urn kicked aside, molten gold searing across the remaining coins. Scrambling up away from the melted metal, Thorin watched the now gold-veined drake fly across the hoard, roaring loud enough to shake the mountain with it.

"Sünna!" He called, drawing the dragons attention, bring them back to land with a spray of treasure and a furious glare.

" _What_ do you want now dwarf? What _more_ is there to be said?"

Thorin regarded the dragon, truthfully unsure what had driven him to interrupt its rage. He hardly cared for the beast but, perhaps, he could... _understand_ it.

"When we met, you swore an _oath_ to me. An oath we have _both_ fulfilled. There is nothing for me to pity."

And Sünna froze, finally looking down at themselves, at the gold set hard against their scales, at the dwarf before them and the hoard beyond it.

"...I still _hate_ you."

Thorin snorted, "Then I'm afraid you'll have to get in line."

And Sünna threw back their now golden head and _laughed._

Joined, moments later, by Thorin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, all my credit to my darling proof reader Ziriah. 😊


	5. Strange Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few weeks have passed since the Battle of the five armies and now comes the long work of turning Erebor into a home once again.
> 
> It's going to be a long day...

It had been a _loooong_ few weeks.

After having returned alive from the mountain, (much to the disappointment of more than a few), Thorin had begun the long, dull, _thankless_ process of persuading people to actually _enter_ Erebor.

Dain, ever one to support his family wholeheartedly, had indeed marched right into mountain and headed straight down to face the dragon head on. 

The following 'cultural exchange' ended with Dain having a large, silver bowl thrown at his head while Sünna wound up learning _fifteen_ new swearwords.

So, all in all, it was a great success.

It grew easier after that, baring a few _minor_ incidents, (such as Thranduil sending several giant spider carcasses for the dragon to eat, which didn't go down well in either sense.) and embarrassments, (such as Sünna _actively_ hiding in the hoard to avoid having to _talk_ to Gandalf, which, frankly, Thorin could sympathize with.)

And now, after another _long_ morning of negotiations with Bard, Thorin _finally_ had a moment to take a walk along the battlements, Dwalin at his side.

"How many today?" Thorin asked heavily, his hands resting atop the worn Stone, letting its strength fill him.

"Two." The new head of the King's guard replied, standing a step away, as ever at Thorin's back. "One poisoning, one rock slide."

"They're getting more inventive," Thorin noted dryly, "which hopefully means more desperate...Any attempts against the boys?"

"Unless you count Kili being crushed to death between elvish thighs an assassination attempt, no." Dwalin answered with an aggravated eyeroll, clearly having walked in on this 'attempt.'

Thorin chuckled at that before dragging his hand down his face with a groan. "I'm not sure what's worse, the fact he's even doing it or the fact he thinks he's being _subtle_."

"Both." Dwalin replied, firm and disgruntled. "Lad's committed to it, wouldn't take no for an answer."

"He's a Durin, of course not." A heavy sigh, "make her a scout," he decided, resigned, "get Balin to make a show of it," he allowed himself a mischievous smirk. "It'll infuriate Thranduil if nothing else."

"Aye, I can get behind that." Dwalin chuckled, "but if Fili falls for that _damm_ dragon I'm resigning my post."

Thorin was struck dumb for a moment by that particular _image_ before he shuddered, attempting to dismiss it from his mind.

"Speaking of the dragon," he began, rallying, "how goes the defences?"

"The ballistas are nearly in position, I've ordered them tucked into the rock, we should be able to get in at least three shots before they're destroyed."

Thorin met Dwalin's gaze for a moment, both unsure if it was enough.

"Add bolas if you can, take out its wings, should buy us some time."

Dwalin nodded, not needing to be told twice.

"Aye, that was all, apart from what ya want done with Smaug's skull?"

"Mount it around the throne," Thorin instructed with no small note of relish at the image of Smaug's jaws framing him in all his glory when he was finally crowned next Durin's day.

"Let _no_ one forget what we achieved."

"Aye, they _never_ will." 

And with a shared nod, both turned and walked away from the battlements, heading back into Erebor proper and the never-ending work ahead.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
There was a dwarf coming towards them.

Granted, that had been an _infuriatingly_ common occurrence the last few weeks but the others had at least been _cautious_ , this one was lumbering directly at them, completely unphased; Grey haired, with a large staff slung upon its back, carrying a sack full of clinking glass in its hands.

"Right, get down here, let me look at you." It demanded loudly, clearly hard of hearing, setting down the sack in one of the dips of the hoard, looking at Sünna with the clear expectation that it would be obeyed.

"What _are_ you doing?" Sünna asked, completely thrown by this bizarre behaviour, especially as the dwarf seemed to be _bringing_ them things.

The dwarf sighed, as though it considered any justification of its actions a waste of time. "I'm Oin, royally appointed healer and you, beastie, are my next patient."

Sünna narrowed their eyes suspiciously, not believing this for a single second. "I _don't_ need healing, nor do I believe you mean well _dwarf_. Besides, would it not be in your interest to see me sick, _if_ I were?"

"Aye, perhaps, _but_ I'm a _healer_ whose duty is to care for the sick and wounded, regardless of whoever they may be. And while you're in this mountain, you _are_ my responsibility...So get yer arse down here already."

And, perhaps to Sünna's greater surprise then Oin's, the drake went, allowing him to approach under their razor sharp gaze.

It was then Sünna was first introduced to the 'joy' of a medical examination which, they decided, was a very innovative form of torture.

"Malnourished, weakened wings, poor scale health, appalling dental hygiene and broken claws." Came the rather damming conclusion when Oin was finished, Sünna left bristling in offense but before they could speak or, more likely, _fry_ the bastard dwarf alive, Oin added, "luckily, _not_ entirely beyond help."

And then Sünna was introduced to the even _stranger_ experience of having their now gold-stained scars being tended to with a thick substance, (an 'Oin-ment' apparently) which felt, frankly, _delightful_ on their still healing flesh.

Once finished, the dwarf wiped his hands and began making notes, muttering to himself about 'meat', 'a scratching post' and 'exercise' all the while Sünna looked on, utterly... _lost._

They didn't thank the dwarf when it was finished, they just swooped up and back into the hoard without another word. 

Oin, seemingly used to a lack of gratitude from his patients, simply gathered up his supplies and turned to leave.

However, just before he reached the edge of the hoard something small and hard hit him in the back.

Startled, Oin whirled around to see whatever the dragon had decided to throw at him only to find an ivory ear trumpet lying at his feet...

With a small, slightly vindicated smile, Oin lifted up the trumpet and set it in his ear, adjusting it until it was comfortable.

But before he carried on his way, he started to whistle the tune of 'Smaug is dead, rejoice.' loudly so it carried across the hall as he took his leave.

And across the hoard, unseen beneath the gold, Sünna chuckled.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
But not everyone was granted such a reprieve from their aches, as Thorin found himself, once again, working passed the setting sun and long into the night, until the candles were gutted down to their base.

So it was, Balin found the king under the mountain was hunched over his desk when he entered the room, the Arkenstone casting a slightly ethereal glow across his face from where it sat beside him.

Sünna had rejected the gem from the hoard shortly after their conversation about its history, declaring it an unwanted relic of a best forgotten past. Thorin had taken it back for himself, reconsidering its value in light of all he had learnt.

After all, if a _dragon_ valued his people's works far higher then the uncut gem, who was he to not do the same?

And so the stone sat apart, as a reminder of its near cost, not yet able to release it completely.

(Bilbo still couldn't bring himself to look at it without flinching, they had yet to speak of the matter, neither knowing where to start but Thorin had started hiding the stone when Bilbo entered his rooms.)

"Ah, good, you're still awake." Balin smiled as he closed the door behind him, eyes twinkling as he took the exhausted Thorin in.

Thorin, knowing this was a trap of some kind, sighed, looking up from the half-finished peace treaty, the words having long blurred into one. "What is it Balin?"

"Why, I'm doing the census of course," the older dwarf beamed, taking a seat in the snug armchair besides the crackling fire, quill and parchment balanced atop his travel lectern. 

"Name: Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror nee Oakenshield."

" _Balin_."

"Age: 150"

" _Balin, please-_ "

"Occupation: King, pending coronation."

" _Balin, stop, please-_ "

"Spouse: Awaiting proposal, note to self, check...Hobbit...marriage... laws."

Thorin threw a candied date at him for that, face a brilliant shade of red.

Balin caught it without looking and popped it right into his mouth, chewing it for a moment before he spoke. "But I suppose I can do the rest alone, although, I've been wondering what to put the dragon's occupation down as-"

"Balin, so help me I will-"

"-Royal guard I think." Balin interrupted, making another exaggerated note, "although, working out its pension is going to be quite-"

"I will go to bed damm you!"

"Oh, am I keeping you awake Thorin?" Balin asked innocently, looking at his friend over the rim of his reading glasses. "Apologies, I didn't realize."

Torn between affection and irritation, Thorin _finally_ rose from his desk with a crack of his spine, his tiredness hitting him in a wave.

"You're an arse Balin son of Fundin," he declared before passing Balin over the rest of the dates with a fond smile.

"The _official_ title is Seneschal my king, I have a robe and everything."

Thorin sniggered, beginning to fill his washbowl from the tap set into the wall, speaking as it filled with fresh spring water.

"Have you come here just to send me to bed?" He asked, looking over his shoulder.

"Partly, but also to let you know we've received word from Dis, she's making the arrangements now and her caravan will be arrive by the end of spring."

Thorin couldn't stop himself from beaming at that news, his smile clearly infectious as Balin sooned returned it.

"She told me to look after you, to get her old rooms ready and 'to tell my idiot son _not_ to get this elf pregnant.'"

Thorin's eyes widened in horror, "Kili _didn't_ write to tell her-"

"-aye he did, in _great_ detail apparently, he must think the distance will give her time to mellow out about it."

Thorin groaned, tempted to drown himself in the now filled washbowl.

"I had best warn the elf," he scoffed, turning off the tap before looking over at Balin. "Did anything else arrive?" 

"A few other letters, mostly of congratulations, a few threats and a few asking for permission to come and settle, nothing I can't handle." Balin reassured, getting to his feet and clasping Thorin on the back.

"Ah, actually, there was _one_ other thing," and then a small pouch of longbottom leaf was being pressed into Thorin's hand with a warm wink.

"It's never to late laddie," he reassured with a gentle squeeze of Thorin's arm, "and you deserve to be happy." 

Thorin smiled despite himself, turning to rest his forehead against Balin's in silent thanks before the older dwarf withdrew, gathering his supplies and heading to the door. 

"Sleep well Thorin."

"Aye, You too Balin," Thorin replied fondly, eyes gazing out to the arrow slit window as the door closed quietly behind him, the light of the moon casting a peaceful glow upon the room.

And, as instructed, he did sleep well that night...  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Unfortunately, Sünna's sleep was not as peaceful as their kings.

The night had started off well, the Oin-ment having long since settled into their scales, leaving them comfortable and lethargic.

They'd curled themselves near the middle of their hoard, bathed in the warm glow of several large urns, the fire hot and soothing.

However, their slumbering was interrupted by a soft, repetitive _scratching_.

Suddenly alert, Sünna carefully shifted to open their eyes to but a slit to find the source of the noise.

And, _of course_ it was a dwarf.

But this one was... different, smaller, all wrapped snug in wool rather then armour, looking _down_ at them while...

_Drawing...?_

Annoyed at being disturbed, Sünna waited until the dwarf was concentrating hard on the parchment before they, silently, slid free of the hoard and flew across to climb behind the dwarf's perch upon the staircase.

"Enjoying the view?" They purred, directly into its ear, their claw having snagged the edge of its tunic so it couldn't escape.

Predictably, the dwarf squeaked, nearly throwing its sketchbook down onto the hoard while the dragon laughed.

A flutter of wings later and it was bundled down into the gold, shaken and trembling as Sünna encircled it with their tail, their head raised high so as to gaze down on them as imperiously as possible.

"I rather think _this_ is a better angle." They said sweetly, the fire light catching off their scales. "Don't you agree little dwarf?"

"O-Ori, I'm Ori," the dwarf identified, hands twisting in its scarf, "and I didn't mean to cause offense! I just...wanted to draw you, for my official account of the quest."

"You're a scribe?" Sünna asked, relaxing a little, this dwarf posed less threat than a mouse after all. 

"Erm, yes! Head scribe actually so...I wanted my drawing of you to be accurate."

"Hmm, and here I thought I'd be remembered by your people as a monstrous creature who bewitched their king. Whatever made this situation entirely my fault and him faultless." Sünna drawled, sounding rather amused with the concept.

"Well, whether they like it or not history is history and it's my duty to report it properly." Ori said firmly with a bold nod.

"Oh?" Sünna asked, now intrigued. "And how will _you_ record me little scribe?"

Ori took a moment to consider, gathering up his charcoal pencil as he looked down at his half finished sketch of the dragon, thumb tracing the edge of the page.

"...As someone who believed in us." He decided, naive perhaps and yet so very _hopeful_.

His words were met with a ringing silence, the world seeming to hold its breath, waiting for the inevitable laugh.

But it didn't come.

"...I suppose I did." Sünna acknowledged instead, slowly laying back down into their previous position, voice rather muted. 

"Continue your drawing little scribe, history awaits us."

And they soon fell back asleep, lulled by the soft crackle of the fire and the gentle scratch of pencil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, all my love to Ziriah! 💖


	6. The Coming of Autumn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coronation day is nearly upon Erebor, but first the Durin's need to reunite and lay several things to rest...

"Stop tugging," Thorin chided, tugging Fili's hands away from his new tight braids, "you'll pull them out and-" but he trailed of when he saw Fili's arched eyebrow.

Suddenly sheepish, Thorin lowered his hands as his fully grown, battle-tempered nephew chuckled at his uncle's antics, as he'd clearly forgotten just how _old_ he was now...

"-end up looking like Dwalin?" Fili asked cheekily, because he'd ever get away with it, no matter how old he grew, even if it earned him the occasional swat.

"Respect your elders," Thorin chided... before chuckling regardless, unable to stay stern for long. Instead, he simply took Fili in; long gone were the dirty knees and worn clothes; now stood his heir, golden haired and true.

"I'm so very proud of you," he admitted, gently squeezing Fili's shoulders, "I always have been, even when I struggled to show it."

Fili smiled, bright and radiant before he pulled Thorin into a tight hug, "I know uncle, I always knew."

The moment lasted for but a minute before Kili burst in, out of breath and painting. "The-the caravan is nearly...nearly here...I was...out...scouting, yes, scouting and I saw them..."

Fili and Thorin shared a knowing glance as they broke apart to look at the youngest, flustered prince, "I didn't realize the scouting uniform had changed." Thorin noted dryly.

"Yeah, you think they'd have told us that the tunics are now to be worn inside out," Fili added, as Kili grew rather pale.

"And _just_ in time for your mother to arrive," Thorin mused, "well, I'm sure she'll be very impressed don't you Kili?"

Kili turned a very bright shade of red as he muttered, "I'll just get changed," before darting out of the room again while Thorin and Fili shared a chuckle.

"Stone, I hope I'm never _that_ embarrassing when I find my One," Fili sighed before adding slyly, "it's almost as bad as pinning after them for _months_ without telling them how I feel~"

And then it was Fili's turn to dart out of the room, laughing as Thorin shouted after him, both soon drowned out by the great horns, welcoming the incoming caravan, just as it passed by the gates of Dale...  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
"You can't be at war _already_?" Sünna asked as the great horns reverberated through the mountain, the bald dwarf before them was certainly dressed for battle, armed and armoured as he was.

"No, they are welcoming the first caravan," the dwarf gritted out as though it wished to be _anywhere_ else.

"Then _why_ on earth are you bothering _me_?" Sünna asked, rapidly losing interest now it was clear there was to be no bloodbath.

"Because, _beast_ , my brother in his _great_ bloody wisdom decided to mark _you_ down as a royal guard so I am _obliged_ to formally discharge you in person."

Oh. 

_Oh._

_Well then._

"And what," Sünna asked, with a long drawl as they arched back to look down at the furious dwarf, "if I do not _wish_ to be discharged?"

" _What?_ "

"What if I were to _remain_ a royal guard?" Sünna asked, _thoroughly_ enjoying themselves. "Is there a uniform?"

" _Yes_ ," Dwalin gritted out, near _murderous._

"Ah, wonderful," Sünna smiled, all teeth, just to spite him. "I _most_ look forward to you presenting me with mine, I have _so_ much to learn, why, I might end up just taking up _all_ of your time."

"Alright then Beastie," Dwalin agreed, deciding two could play at this game if they were so damm set on it. "Yer want to be a royal guard? I'll bloody make yer into a royal guard."

After he'd _murdered_ Balin for this...  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Luckily for Balin, he and most of the royal retinue had been kept most busy by the arrival of Dis' caravan, the welcoming feast stretching long into the night and into the small hours of the morning.

Dis had been the light of the party, after having survived being nearly bowled over by her two sons. But she managed to catch them both just in time as if they were still but boys, running away from mean uncle Thorin.

Of course, this was all _against_ proper protocol but no one had the heart to split the family apart, especially when Thorin himself fell into Dis' arms with a soft sob of relief.

They'd made it. 

They were _home_.

Now, it was just before dawn, when the mountain was at its most quiet, the last of the celebrations dying the remaining revellers finally went to bed.

However, the two eldest Durins did not yet sleep, rather, they were standing outside the one room in the mountain that none had yet entered, the name _Frerin_ still carved deep into the wood.

"Father was furious at him for this wasn't he?" Dis murmured as she traced the letters, "the door had only been replaced recently hadn't it? After he...Ha! Wasn't it a _firework_ or something?"

Thorin chuckled, a lump in his throat, "Aye, it burned a hole straight through, I don't even remember where he got it from...always making trouble he was..." 

"Anything to try and make his _grumpy_ big brother laugh," Dis breathed, her eyes a little wet as she _finally_ pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The room had been near perfectly preserved. In fact, were it not for the thick layer of dust, it was almost as if Frerin had just stepped out the door.

"That bastard!" Dis cried, storming across the room to snatch up a fine, porcelain doll dressed in faded furs with soft, vicurna wool for hair she'd spotted tucked under an old pillow. "I _knew_ he had them! I knew he-"

She broke off, holding the doll close as she began to cry, Thorin at her side a moment later, unable to stop his own tears.

"He-he was trying to carve you a pony for them to ride," Thorin recalled, the memory hitting him with a muffled blow, "to say sorry for dropping your last one down a mineshaft. He told me to keep it a secret..."

Dis laughed shakily, having also forgotten that in the horror of all that had happened after, "silly, little goat, could never leave anything alone. He'd have been a terror with my boys..."

"I'd have gone even greyer," Thorin agreed, smiling through his tears, "Erebor would've never survived the three of them."

Dis sobbed, hastily rubbing her eyes on her sleeve, "ha, no...no...We'd never have a moments peace."

Sniffing, she turned to face Thorin properly, gently wiping her eyes with her thumb. "He'd have been _so_ proud of you." She whispered, just for him to hear, "you and your mad plans and _damm_ stubbornness...You're the best-worst big brother in the world."

Thorin choked on his sob, having to close his eyes as his knees nearly gave, his sister holding him steady as they mourned together, _finally_ able to grieve for all they had lost, just as the sun crested over the horizon.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Spring bleed lazily into Summer then Summer lazily bleed into Autumn but the mountain remained a hive of activity with more caravans arriving nearly every three weeks. The novelty of having a dragon in residence having faded somewhat admist the more pressing concerns of food, trade and infrastructure.

(However, there was still some amusement to be found from the still ongoing 'training sessions' between the Beast and the Head Guard Dwalin, both too proud to be the first to give in while determined to make the other do so first.)

But, most people were busy preparing for the upcoming coronation on Durin's day, as was traditional, the date given even more significance this time around as it was also the day of Smaug's defeat.

As such, Bard and the people of Dale had been invited to the coronation as acknowledgement and thanks of his slaying of the dragon and to celebrate the new peace and trade between them. 

Thranduil too had been invited, far more begrudgingly and with stricter conditions, being only allowed a small retinue for the day itself and _not_ the overnight invitation Bard had received.

(Although there were mutterings that Thranduil might just find himself in a bed that night regardless, were the whispers about the Bowman and the Elvinking to be believed.)

However, such gossip was the furthest thing from Thorin's mind right now, sat as he was before his fine, floor-length mirror, the big day having finally arrived. He was nearly ready, dressed in all of his finery, the ceremony soon to commence and _by the Stone what was he-_.

"Stop right there Thorin Oakenshield," Bilbo interrupted with a sharp tug on his hair as the Hobbit worked in yet another Mithril bead into the growing hoard atop Thorin's head.

"You're doing the 'I'm so unworthy face' and I haven't just stood here for the last _two hours_ dressing you like a prized pony to have you think those things now."

Thorin couldn't hide his smile, knowing that for all of Bilbo's fuss he was just as invested in this as he was.

There had been no truer friend throughout the last year than his Hobbit, who had ever stood by his side, offering his usual brand of blunt advice when Thorin had most needed to hear it.

(Thorin himself had been _far_ less useful when news of Bag End's sale at Bilbo's apparent death had reached the mountain. In hindsight, sending a fully armed battalion of dwarfs to get Bilbo's property and possessions back had been a _slight_ overreaction. Especially, as Bilbo had been beside himself with laughter when he found out, unable to even _look_ at Thorin for a week afterwards and _no one_ prepared to let him ever live it down.)

"Prized pony?" He asked amused, both at the name and the memory; pausing to give Bilbo a pointed look in the mirror at the Hobbit's _own_ rich attire, his mithril shirt gleaming proudly under his new velvet blue coat. 

Bilbo scoffed, ears a bright red, "well, _somebody_ insisted I dress for the occasion didn't they?" He huffed, setting the last bead in place before neating away any flyaways as he spoke. "'O' come now Bilbo,'" he began in an all too accurate impersonation of Dori, forcing Thorin to choke back a laugh. "You simply _must_ dress properly for this occasion! All of Erebor will be watching after all! They can't see you looking like a vagabond.' _Vagabond_ I ask you."

"You'd certainly be the bravest vagabond in Erebor," Thorin offered before wincing at the expected head tug and the dismissive scoff of, "It's easy to be brave, when surrounded by _idiots_."

Thorin couldn't stop his laugh that time, finding Bilbo so wonderfully refreshing after months of everyone tiptoing about him as if he were liable to explode. "Then we must be _exceptionally_ stupid to explain _your_ great courage Bilbo."

Bilbo bit his lip, looking away, "the things you say..." A soft pause, the moment stretching, so close-

-Before Bilbo broke away with quick, "anyway, you're done, go on, go...king." 

"I'm not _quite_ king yet," Thorin noted, just to tease him before he rose to his feet, resplendent in his rich furs, achingly deep blue silks and softly simmering beads. Enough to steal the breath clean from Bilbo's lungs...

"...Well," the Hobbit dismissed, coughing, "close enough, go on, they're probably waiting-"

But Thorin paused, looking at Bilbo, dressed in mithril and _Durin_ colours and he could no longer stop himself, his hand gently cupping those bare cheeks before he kissed him.

Bilbo seemed surprised for but a moment before he returned the kiss, hands clenching tight in those rich silks, creasing them something rotten.

A few moments later they broke apart, Thorin's eyes still closed for a second longer before they opened and he _smiled_. "Bilbo, I-"

"Uncle! Uncle come on!" Kili called, banging on the door, "they're starting!"

With a frustrated sigh, Thorin stepped back, releasing Bilbo with a reluctant look. " _Later_ ," he promised with a softer smile before he took his leave.

Bilbo let out a sigh of his own, quickly straightening out his coat before he to was summoned but...just as he went to leave he happened to catch a glance at the Arkenstone, the gem glowing faintly from where it _always_ sat upon Thorin's desk.

A sharp pain lanced straight through his heart at the sight of it, the warmth of Thorin's lips already fading under it's cold, empty light.

With a jerking, scrabbling movement Bilbo left the room, slamming the door behind him with a heavy, choked breath, his back falling against the oak as his hands instinctively curled around the ever warm, ever _comforting_ weight of his lucky ring he always carried in his pocket.

He took a few moments to steel himself before he headed down towards the throne room, the drums already beginning to sound....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, Ziriah, you've been a fantastic help! 💖


	7. Greed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The coronation proceeds at last with Thorin finally taking his rightful place.
> 
> But old hurts and resentments are threatening to boil over and drag everything back down...

Bilbo reached the coronation procession just in time, having to hurry past an overly _enthusiastic_ Gloin who was trying to introduce a poor, younger dwarf with equally red hair to anyone in close enough vicinity.

After narrowly escaping said introduction to the excessively shilled 'Gimli', Bilbo _finally_ squeezed into his front row seat between Bofur and Nori, more then happy to take a toffee off the latter to chew upon while the coronation started.

It was a suitably grandiose affair, the Royal guard parting as one to allow the king and his entourage passage, Fili and Kili beside Thorin, while Dain walked exactly seven steps behind. There was a hush when they reached the beginning of the walkway to the Lonely Throne, Dis and Balin the only people awaiting at the other end, proud and magnificent.

They all, as of yet, stood in near total darkness, only the torches lining the far walls providing any light, the line of braziers that had been raised to flank each side of the walkway as yet unlit.

"They're put out when the last king dies," Bofur whispered to Bilbo in explanation, "then lowered, only to be raised and lit when their successor has their coronation, like a circle or something." 

"And who lights them? Thorin?" Bilbo whispered back as the assembled crowd watched as Fili and Kili removed Thorin's circlet of first princeship and set it down upon the cushion Dain was carrying.

Bofur shrugged before whispering back, as Fili and Kili crossed the walkway, the throne now flanked by four. "Nah, not usually, it's symbolic see? So its whoever the king thinks best symbolizes their rule, could be their kid, a parent, friend, anyone they like."

...And all of a sudden Bilbo had a very _bad_ feeling about this...

A feeling that was proved _entirely_ correct but a moment later when Sünna silently flew over the heads of the crowd before filling the chamber with a burst of _brilliant_ light, the great braziers set alight in one controlled blast of fire.

The screams and cries of alarm that immediately followed drowned out any other sound as Sünna reached the end of the walkway and banked in a perfect arc to land atop Smaug's skull, their claws finding purchse in its great, empty sockets as they roared, wings unflured.

"I'm going to _kill_ him," a very shaken Bilbo hissed as Thorin, completely unphased, began the long walk to the Lonely throne, its seat of which was now encased within Smaug's broken jaws, beneath the claws of another, 'tamed' dragon.

Even angry as he was, Bilbo had to give it to Thorin, it was _quite_ the powerful image.

Sünna, however, did not stay long.

As soon as Thorin took his throne, they took off with a final roar, letting themselves fall to the side so as to glide lightly back into the hoard, their part played.

And, given by the the _look_ on Thranduil's face, played _extremely_ well.

The rest of the ceremony was a less... _melodramatic_ affair but it still stole Bilbo's breath away for, after swearing an oath to Erebor and her people, Thorin's crown was _finally_ sat in its proper place atop his head.

And then began the singing.

Dwarfsong was something indescribably beautiful, seeped as it was in tragedy and loss, its echo enough to bury itself in your bones, leaving an ache you could never _quite_ shift. It carried with it all of their people's past, present and future until the air was _drenched_ in it, each note bleeding into the rock were it was held there tightly in the Stone until the world itself unravelled.

Bilbo knew he was crying before he felt the tears on his cheeks but he only had eyes for Thorin who, despite the crowd, managed to find him and flash him a _brillant_ smile that made Bilbo's heart hurt all the more.

While the weight in his pocket seemed to grow all the heavier...  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
But no matter how heavy Bilbo's heart, even he couldn't keep out the infectious joy of the dwarves. He'd thought the arrival of the first caravan Erebor had caused a celebration but that was _nothing_ compared to this.

The mountain was alight with colour, from peacock feathers, to exotic silks, to the ever present gleam of gems. Every dwarf was in their very Best and, thanks to the generosity of the now-king Thorin everyone had a Best in which to _shine_ in.

Truthfully, so grand did the dwarves look, it made even the _elves_ look a little drab, (although, that was hardly helped by their sour expressions), and the Men rather... _homely_ (but Bard was still managing to charm himself, now engaging in a friendly dice game with the head of the Stonemason guild, the sly fox.)

Bilbo had excused himself to the fringes of the party after a while. It wasn't that he didn't necessarily _dislike_ all of the attention but there was only so much a poor Hobbit could take!

It seemed, however, that he was not alone in this line of thought, as Tilda, her brother and some of the other children of Laketown had also started to drift out of sight. The dwarves _had_ spoiled them rotten with attention which, was all well and good but that didn't stop their new clothes from itching, the room being too loud and all the grown-ups being so _boring_.

It was almost inevitable they slipped away. 

And Bilbo, resigned to his fate, followed, kept out of sight by his ever lucky ring as the children, after tiptoeing out of the great hall, began to descended _down_.

...Straight to the Dragon.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Sünna had never been exposed to children before.

Why would they have been? Well, unless they were going to eat them... Not that these ratty little things would make much of a meal with their thin rags and thinner bones.

They were also _appallingly_ bad at sneaking, as they giggled, cajoled and 'whispered' to each other as they approached the dragon's curled back.

Sünna decided to let them get _just_ close enough to touch before they _shifted_ , just ever so slightly.

"It's awake!" Cried one of the youngest, loud enough to _have_ awoken them had they truly been asleep.

"Nah, it ain't, it's just sleeping," one of the more confident younglings declared, "it ain't even _that_ big close up bet it ain't even that scary..."

_Well._

We can't have that, can we?

And so, Sünna, with exaggerated slowness, rose, letting the gold spill down their back as they towered over the now terrified children, their tail curling to cut off any escape.

"Ah, I see the dwarves decided to send me food after all," they purred, deciding to scare the little mites for their insolence.

"No!" Cried the second smallest, hands twisting in its dress, frightened but having more courage then the previous child who'd spoken. "We just wanted to see you! My Da killed the last dragon so I couldn't get-"

"-Tilda! Don't tell it that!"

But Sünna just smiled at this 'Tilda', almost kindly were it not for the razor sharp teeth. "You're Bard's offspring then? Yes, your sire did me a mighty service. But I'm afraid Smaug was nothing much to see, fat and stupid as he was."

"Yeah! He must've been to dare take on Da!" Tilda agreed, even as her brother tried to shush her again.

Sünna, deciding they rather liked this child's attitude, shifted their tail and laid down so their nose was to Tilda's head so as better to address them. 

"Mmm, you _are_ a clever child, tell me, do you think _I_ am 'fat' and 'stupid'?

"Nuh-uh! You're really pretty!" Tilda decided with a firm nod, "can we play with you? If you're not gunna eat us?"

"Play?" Sünna asked, only vaguely aware of the concept and finding it...quaint. But, if these were Bard's children and associates, it would do no harm to gain their greater appreciation. 

Especially if they could be encouraged to offer gifts...

"Very well, Tilda, teach me how to _play_."

And the children cheered!  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
But Bilbo, most definitely, did _not_ cheer.

Infact, his heart was lodged somewhere so deep in his throat that he'd need Oin to return it to its proper place.

The dragon was still _huge_ compared to the children after all and they didn't understand the _danger_ they were in as they ran away from the beast, now playing hide and seek.

Bilbo was rooted to the spot in horror as he watched Sünna begin to skulk through the hoard, attempting to find the children now buried within. 

It was too much, _too_ familiar, they were smaller yes but they _moved_ like Smaug and they had found a child and they were _lifting_ them with their tail and the child was _screaming_ as they were dropped back atop the hoard, **found**.

And Bilbo couldn't _move_ as more and more children were plucked free and set down, the dragons spearsharp claws slipping in _deep_ into the gold. And then it was the final child, little Tilda who didn't _understand_ , little Tilda who _struggled_...

...Little Tilda who slipped from Sünna's grasp, the spikes on their tail carving through the little girl's arm like butter, the flash of blood brilliant against the grey scales...

And Bilbo took off running up the stairs...  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Sünna did not like the sound of a child crying.

It was deeply unpleasant, shrill and... _wrong_.

As soon as they'd seen the blood, they'd released the girl, her siblings and friends rushing over as they took in the damage.

Luckily, it seemed to look worse than it was, the girl's arm was still _attached_ after all so how bad could it truly be?

Resolving to end the crying, Sünna retreated for a moment to snatch up a pot of Oin-ment, its namesake having taken months ago to leaving his supplies in the hoard rather then bring them every time.

"Here," they insisted, passing the Oin-ment over to the girl's brother. "Stop her crying."

Indeed, the Oin-ment did seem to soothe the ache enough that Tilda stopped sniffling, which Sünna assumed meant it all was fine now. 

"I trust you have learnt your lesson about-"

"-DA NO!"

And Sünna span, just in time to see Bard rushing towards them, bow drawn, Thranduil close behind, followed by his guards and then, finally Thorin himself who, luckily for all involved, caught Bard's arm before he could loose his arrow.

" _What_ is going on here?" Thorin roared, the King under the Mountain demanding answer.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
"It was an accident!" Tilda wailed first, staggering up while holding her arm close before she rushed to her Da, "we were playing and I slipped, Sünna didn't mean to! Please don't shoot them daddy!"

"Indeed," the dragon agreed, tense but seemingly merciful enough to _not_ immediately take out their wrath upon Bard for his near attack. "For had I intend your child harm, they would not be there in your arms."

Thorin closed his eyes at that, resisting the urge to groan. He dearly hoped Bard would just take his children and _leave_ and _praise the Stone_ the bowman did, whisking Tilda and the others away with barely a backwards look.

But, of course, Great King Thranduil could not let sleeping dragons lie...

"But your intent matters not, you _did_ cause harm." Thranduil noted, his expression blank but his eyes glinting. "You may have these dwarves fooled, _beast_ but not I. _When_ your true nature comes to the fore once more, my people and I will be waiting."

The dragon snarled at him, low and furious, eyes slits before they reared-

-Only to take of, slamming into the other end of the hoard for a moment before they soared back, landing in a spray of coins that pooled at Thranduil's feet as they clutched above his head in their tail...

The White Gems of Lasgalen.

" _My_ true nature?" The Dragon hissed, cruel and malevolent as they held the gems _just_ out of reach. "As if _you_ would not have _cut_ every dwarvish throat that stood in your way for _these_."

The gems tinkled gently as they were rattled, the delicate silver chain close to _snapping_ under Sünna's strength.

"It was not _I_ who laid siege to this mountain, who brought an army to its gates, I _watched_ you, O'Elvenking, l saw how you _delighted_ at the promise of violence and _theft_."

Their eyes turned to slits, their voice promising fire, "What a _fine_ dragon you would have made."

And Thranduil, grief-stricken and furious, _rose_ to the bait and lunged, sword flashing but Sünna was _faster_ , knocking him off his feet before pinning him beneath their foot, their talon preparing to press _down_ into his pale, marble throat-

" **STOP!** " Thorin roared, even as the Elven guards readied their weapons behind him but they were all too far and too few to stop Sünna should they-

But Sünna _did_ stop, their claw pressed _deep_ into the hollow of Thranduil's throat but no further, the skin as yet unbroken...

"You made me an _oath_ ," Thorin continued, knowing he had but _moments_ to act before all he had bleed for was destroyed. 

"You _swore_ to me you would harm _none_ in this mountain...Was your oath ultimately _worthless_?"

For a terrifying moment Thorin was sure he'd been _disastrously_ wrong, Sünna's claw flexing...before it withdrew and Thranduil was allowed to rise.

"For _you_ he lives," Sünna hissed, twisting their head to address Thorin, "for _I_ keep my word, unlike some."

And then the White Gems of Lasgalen were sailing through the air, only to be caught by Thranduil's numb fingers. 

"I hope they _choke_ you." Sünna hissed, now shaking. 

"Permission to leave the hoard?" They asked Thorin, their gaze once again upon Thranduil, pinning him in place by its intensity alone.

"What?"

"I can _not_ restrain myself forever Oakenshield!" They roared, the flames calling...

"Go, just go." Thorin allowed quickly, as required by his own addition to the oath.

And with a final hateful _snarl_ Sünna fled, flying out of the great doors, the mountains ringing a moment later with a roar of fire and fury...  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Thorin took a moment to rest his forehead against the Stone outside of his rooms, finally alone and finally able to _breathe_. 

The fallout from that evenings 'event' having left him utterly _exhausted_.

Luckily Tilda's injury, while nasty, would leave nothing but a shallow scar. The testimonies of the other children having, _thankfully_ , convinced Bard it was all but a blameless accident.

Thranduil, for his part, had barely spoken; clearly having been shaken to his core by both the dragon's words and its actions.

He also had yet to relinquish his white-knuckled grip upon his precious gems.

Thorin found himself rather _pitying_ the elf but he had no desire, nor the abilty, to even attempt comfort him. 

Rather, he left the matter to Balin who, as ever, could soothe even the most ruffled of feathers.

(And could also, _discreetly_ , have Bard moved to a room with a larger bed...)

Now, with the sun having long set, Thorin had been able to escape to his rooms, where he'd have a bath, a _strong_ drink and he would _try_ to get the echo of dragonfire out of his mind...

But, as he opened the door to his chambers, he was forced to stop dead.

For he was not alone, _Bilbo_ was already waiting within, sat upon his desk...

The Arkenstone glowing softly in his hand...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, Ziriah, you've been a star. 💫


	8. The Coming of Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Thorin finally come to terms with what happened a year ago while Sünna returns to their hoard as time presses ever onwards.

"Oh, _there_ you are..." Bilbo began, his thumb idly running over the Arkenstone as he gazed at it, his voice deceptively calm.

"Bilbo, what are you doing?" Thorin asked, slowly closing the door behind him, stomach clenching taut.

"Thinking, I know, I _do_ do it sometimes," the Hobbit replied, a humourless smile on his face. "Do you want to know what about?"

"Of course," Thorin agreed, slowly removing his cloak, eyes unable to fully leave Bilbo's face.

"Well, I just thinking that it's rather _rich_ for Thranduil alone to get such a dressing down for his _selfishness_ when _you_ risked my life, not once but _twice_ for a stone you didn't even _need_ in the end."

And then Bilbo looked up at him, his gaze lancing through Thorin's chest, the Hobbit's eyes red, wet and _angry_.

"You _never_ needed a burglar at all did you? Oh but you made it sound so _pretty_ , you and that _fucking_ song...But I was just there to fuel your _vanity_ project, 'The King's Jewel'...Better a dead grocer than it being stolen again by another bloody dragon eh?"

Thorin had no reply to that, any words he might have had turning to ash in his mouth.

Because Bilbo was _right_.

Had Thorin told Gandalf they already had a plan of their own? Had he told the wizard they needed no burglar?

No.

Because _Thrakün_ had mentioned the Arkenstone and Thorin's heart had _ached_.

"But you know, I could've forgiven that," Bilbo carried on, furiously wiping his eyes on his sleeve. "Maybe the vents wouldn't have worked? Maybe the other dragon betrayed you? Maybe I might have had a _point_ after all."

Bilbo broke off, gulping down a huge lungful of air before he ploughed on, determined. "But then we _won_ didn't we? And suddenly you, Thranduil and Bard were all more than happy to make war. A war _I_ risked everything to avoid and then _you_ , the fucking crown already on your head as you held me over the battlements called me a _curse_ on the company..."

A bitter, ugly laugh clawed its way out of Bilbo's throat, his grip turning painful on the Arkenstone, the tendons in his hand threatening to burst through the skin.

"And I _can't_ forgive you for that...Not...not yet."

And, with but a few steps, Thorin was _there_ , falling to his knees and clutching Bilbo's empty hand in his, his Durin blue eyes swimming with tears.

"You're wrong," he breathed, voice cracked, "not about me but you were _always_ needed Bilbo, you saved my life, you got us out of Thranduil's dungeons, you found the keyhole. Time and time you were _exactly_ what we needed...It was _me_ who _wasted_ it."

Bilbo clenched his eyes shut, his curls falling into his face as he cried, his voice close to breaking. "I...I _need_ to go _home_ , it's all too...too _raw_ here Thorin, there's too many reminders and I _can't_...

"Then you must go," Thorin replied, soft and soothing, even as his broke his own heart. "You are a treasure beyond treasure but you're not mine to hoard. If home is where you need to be...I will see you there as swiftly as I can."

Bilbo sobbed, slipping from the desk into Thorin's arms, the Arkenstone tumbling to the floor. "I love you...I love you but that's _why_ I have to go because I can't _be_ in love with you, not-not with this _choking_ me."

And what else could Thorin do but hold him tightly? His own tears soaking into his words but his resolve remained true. "Then I will wait," he reassured, gently kissing Bilbo's soft curls, "I will wait for you until the mountain itself crumbles. For I would rather you be _whole_ faraway from me Bilbo Baggins then but a shadow at my side."

Bilbo smiled at those words, wet and weak but still a smile. "S-save me from the stubbornness of Dwarves."

Thorin chuckled, the sound only cracking at the end. "And save me from the pure hearts of Hobbits."

That stirred a surprised, gasping laugh out of Bilbo who drew back to swat Thorin lightly...before he cupped his face and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips.

"Stay with me tonight?" Bilbo asked in a whisper when they parted, clearly fearing the terrors sleep would bring. 

"Until the dawn and beyond." Thorin promised before he rose, guiding Bilbo over to his fine bed to snuggle down in.

While The Arkenstone was left forgotten on the floor...  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Sünna did not return to the mountain until well after midnight, the great doors having been left, to their great surprise, open for them.

They were met with neither hostility or welcome, in fact, few dwarves were even in the vicinity as they glided back into the hoard, their wings whisper silent as they came into land.

It was, truthfully, rather lucky none were around to see them for they were in quite a state: Dried goat's blood clotted thickly about their snout, their claws were caked in mud and their tail was flecked with splinters from spitefully smashed trees.

"Well, ain't yer a right mess Beastie."

Ah.

It seemed they'd spoken too soon.

"What do you want dwarf?" Sünna spat, twisting around to face the infuriatingly smug Dwalin who'd made himself quite at home atop the stairs leading down to the hoard. "I'm in no mood for your games."

"Aye, and I rather need my arms in full working order."

Sünna sneered at him, "the child is permanently wounded then?" 

Dwalin deliberately paused before answering, watching the dragon closely for their reaction. "Nah, nothing a few stiches and rest won't fix, already going on about coming ta play with yer again."

Sünna snorted, incredulously shaking their head. " _Men_." They drawled, disdainful amusement clear. "Ever foolish, I'm surprised none has yet come here with the mad notion to take me for a mount!"

"Heh, We've only had the _odd_ enquiry."

Sünna laughed, flicking a spray of coins in Dwalin's direction as they settled down opposite him, tail curled under their chin.

"So, if you're not here to farm me out to would-be dragon riders...Why _are_ you here? To gloat?"

"Tch, nah, I'd have done the same thing if I were in your shoes, well, might've left the poncy elf with worse injuries then just his wounded pride. No, actually, I came here to give yer this..."

And then Dwalin was on his feet, lifting up from behind him a rich bolt of blue cloth, holding it out for Sünna to inspect. 

"And what's that?" They asked, rising up for a better look.

"Yer uniform." Dwalin replied with a smug little smirk, "you've earned it, now get it on already so I can go to bed."

Stunned, Sünna approached, ducking their great head down so Dwalin could throw the cloth over them, having already twisted it so it settled about their neck in two, rich loops.

Once done, Dwalin withdrew, the Durin blue offering a truly striking contrast to their gold-stained scales.

"Welcome to the Royal Guard Sünna..now go the fuck to sleep, early start tomorrow."

And with that he was off, whistling as he went, having 'won' their little game.

But as Sünna settled down for the night, the material warm about their neck...

It didn't feel like so much of a loss.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Bilbo left Erebor a month later, taking the last trading caravan out before the Winter truly set in and the roads became impassable. It had been a muted, intimate goodbye; only Thorin, the company and a few other friends Bilbo had made in attendance.

It wasn't forever, the Hobbit had promised, he'd visit often, after all, he had a book to write! But, it _was_ for now and Thorin stood upon the battlements watching Bilbo's departure until the last pony vanished out of sight.

(He'd later learn that Thranduil had ordered his own son's company to lead Bilbo's caravan safely through the winding trees. And if, in turn, he was _over_ generous with Dale's winter coal ration? Well, neither of them ever mentioned it.)

The Winter came and went, as did many after it. Over the years, Erebor grew and prospered, the grumbles about the dragon and the Woodelf-turned-scout eventually died down. Of course, his people were instructed to _not_ bother Sünna under any circumstances...which meant, of course, they did.

The dragon, rather than being angered by this, decided to take full advantage by claiming to offer good luck and advice in exchange for gifts. Thorin had been completely oblivious to this practice until Sünna's ' _advice_ ' had resulted in attempted murder.

(Which lead to the intriguing case of, 'a dragon told me to do it', which, the court decided, was _not_ actually a valid legal defence.)

After that, the 'practice' became properly regulated, with Sünna _expressly_ forbidden from offering any advice which involved murder, theft or arson.

Sulking about this, Sünna started to demand greater 'tribute' in exchange for their time. Which, rather then put people off, only lead to _more_ petitioners as they assumed the advice must be truly wise if it cost so much in tribute.

Dwalin didn't let the drake live _this_ down either.

And so Erebor found its new balance over the next two decades, the dragon now an accepted feature of mountain life, the city of Dale a valued trading partner once more and the elves, well, that was still a work in progress. 

As for Bilbo Baggins? Why, he become a yearly vistor, by for himself for a time but these days he was now joined by his adopted, black-haired nephew ever bouncing along at his side...

But, some still remained restless.

Despite the success of Erebor, their people had still lost more than they had recovered; for Dwarrow hearts could never long forget the homes that remained yet lost under shadow.

And Balin, so _very_ old now, his role being steadily replaced by the ever maturing Fili, decided that _now_ was the time to take his leave.

Khazad-dûm was calling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ziriah, you know the drill by now. 😂😘


	9. Khazad-dûm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final few goodbyes before the road to Moria...

"No! I can _not_ allow this Balin."

It was a crisp winter's evening, the mountain having now been reclaimed for twenty-one years. In that time, Thorin's once sparse chambers had had new life breathed into them. Soft carpets, ornate planters and overly stuffed cushions now adorned every nook and cranny of the room. 

The dwarves sat in the two rich, plush arm chairs that sat before the roaring fire, the smoke of pipeweed gently curling between the old friends.

Balin, aged by time and hardship, nevertheless smiled, as warm as the first rays of the summer sun, "Laddie...It's not down to you." His tone kind but firm.

Thorin, also aged, silver now streaked deep through his hair, skin beginning to wrinkle, closed his eyes in pain.

"Then tell me _why_? 'A life of peace and plenty' nearly kept you in Ered Luin, _why_ Balin would you risk losing even _more_ now?"

The elder dwarf took a long drag of his pipe, relaxing back into his armchair before he answered, clearly at peace with his decision. "I'm an _old_ dwarf Thorin, a lifelong warrior and advisor. I cannot just fade quietly into the Stone."

"So you march blindly into the folly of Khazad-dûm?!" Thorin cried, aghast. "The place yet crawls with orcs, trolls and who knows what other horrors, what even is your plan should you survive entering those cursed doors?"

"The mines." Balin responded, with utter surety. "Erebor stood unvented for decades, but _those_ mines have not been touched for _centuries_. This plan worked once, refined...It can work twice."

Thorin deflated, sinking back into the comfort of the cushion behind him, suddenly feeling every single one of his 181 years. "A high gamble to take, you don't even know if those vents yet work."

"Nor did we twenty-one years ago," Balin reminded him gently, "and our odds were even more impossible then: Twelve dwarves, a wizard, a hobbit and the word of a _dragon?_ Yet...Here we are."

Thorin couldn't help but chuckle at the reminder, time having dulled the ridiculousness of their quest but Balin was entirely correct. It had also been an absurd gamble.

"Who else intends to come?" He asked with growing resignation, truly having no real argument against this venture.

"Oin, Ori and a hundred or so others, with more coming from the Iron Hills and Ered Luin."

"You _have_ been busy," Thorin noted, faintly accusing.

"I'm a practical dwarf." Balin replied with an innocent little shrug that had Thorin smile despite himself.

There was a soft moment, the two old friends smoking in silence.

And then Thorin asked, "when will you go?"

"Spring, as soon as the roads are passable again." Balin replied, refilling his pipe as he spoke, "Fili has come into his own, he's ready to take my place."

"He has," Thorin agreed, voice aching with pride, "but _none_ could ever replace you Balin."

"Quite right too," Balin winked, startling a laugh out of the king which ended with an achingly fond smile, the curl of smoke keeping them both company for the rest of the night.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
"Alright then Beastie, one more lap."

Sünna, having long since resigned themselves to Oin's medical exams, obligingly took off and flew around the hoard for the third time that day before landing infront of the old healer, deliberately hitting him with the downdraft just to be petty.

"Satisfied?" They asked, telling themselves they sounded imperious.

"Extremely," Oin replied dryly, jotting down an extra observation on his parchment.

In truth, Sünna had come on leaps and bounds over the last two decades. No longer could their ribs be seen through their thin hide, no longer did their scales crack and peel and no longer did their claws hang split and worn.

No, now they stood _gleaming_ , their once dull grey hue having flushed into a warmer silver, the gold having long set into clean, flowing ribbons which weaved elegantly lines across their flesh.

And, to top off their now _magnificent_ presence, their badge of office still remained, the Durin blue hanging proud, twice looped about their neck.

"Good," Sünna snorted but they couldn't quite resist a vain flutter of their wings. "Then I suppose you need not bother me anymore."

Oin smiled a that, shifting his ear trumpet so as better to hear them. "Aye, that's what I came to tell yer Beastie, I'm _not_ gunna be the Royal healer from the Spring so no, yer won't have to see me anymore."

"Ah, you're... retiring then?" Sünna asked, trying and failing to sound only vaguely interested.

"Nah, not quite. I'm joining another quest as their healer, they need me more then you lot. Besides, my apprentices have more then earned their rank, Stone, they _might_ even have the patience to deal with _you._ "

Sünna tossed a goblet at him for that, fighting the urge to smile. "Then I hope they have your courage Oin son of Groin!" they declared, flexing their muscles. "Least I _eat_ them."

"Ah but then you'd have no one left to pluck them out when they get stuck in yer gullet!" Oin pointed out, the pair of them sharing a wry chuckle.

"Quite," Sünna agreed, shifting to better rest on their forelegs. "Then I wish you luck on this venture, 'good' healer. You must tell me all about it when you return...Especially if I need help getting to sleep."

"Ah, so yer _do_ want your teeth cleaned after all?" Oin asked, bending down into his bag for his tools...

...Only to look up and find Sünna gone, having gone to hide in their hoard.

Sniggering, Oin took his leave, whistling as he went, of to find his apprentices.

He needed teach them how to make Sünna's Oin-ment before he departed.

Just in case.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
"Yer need to fucking _duck_ Gimli!" Dwalin bellowed down at the lad as he and a group of twenty others trained outside under the warm spring sun. "Any more knocks to yer head and you'll be as addled as yer father!"

"Oi!" Shouted Gloin from the other end of the practice arena, he and Dwalin having long been kept apart during these sessions for everyone's safety. "Don't you listen to him son! You're doing great!"

Dwalin rolled his eyes, tempted to throw something at his cousin. "Alright yer little gobshites, a ten minute break and then yer all going for a run round the mountain."

This was met with a chorus of groans which lightened Dwalin's spirits as he went to get a drink, having to resist _another_ eyeroll when he heard Gloin fuss over Gimli for the umpteenth time.

"Having fun brother?" Came the amused voice of Balin as Dwalin drained his goblet of water, a mischievous twinkle in his old, grey eyes. 

"Tch, can't you persuade Gloin to join your mad quest? I might be able to make something of Gimli without him hovering over the poor lad."

Balin snorted, taking a seat on the old wooden bench, tone fond. "Nay, he wouldn't have it when I asked, his boy's still to young and he has his duty."

Dwalin sighed, slowly setting down his now empty goblet and turning to face Balin, a frown upon his face. "And _you_ don't?"

"Dwalin-"

"We swore an _oath_ brother, to stand by our king whatever happens. Have you forgotten?"

"No and you _know_ I haven't." Balin replied, quieter but no less fierce, the bench creaking as he rose to his feet, facing his brother head on.

"But this is _greater_ then us Dwalin, our people-"

"-need you _here_ Balin!" Dwalin cried, impassioned and true. 

And then his scarred, tattooed hands were being taken in Balin's own, their foreheads resting against each other. "I cannot go with you," Dwalin breathed, voice so very small. "I _cannot_ leave him..."

"I know," Balin reassured, gently squeezing those ever-strong hands, his voice kind. "And nor would I ever ask you to. Your place is here. Mine? Well, that's what I intend to find out."

And with a firmer press of their foreheads they parted, both of their eyes wet. "Now then, let's go rescue Gimli from Gloin before he decides to put the lad on a pony so he won't sprain his ankle on the run."

And with that, the two brothers set off together, the road not wrenching them apart just yet...  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Sünna was starting to get suspicious.

They usually had a handful of petitioners each day, some seeking advice, some just seeking a closer look. They didn't much care either way so long as they were paid their due. 

(Apart from the children, they were allowed to visit for free as, Sünna reasoned, they'd have nothing of value to really offer. So, really, they were only helping to build a habit that they'd reap the benefits of when the children were fully grown.)

But this steady _stream_ of Dwarves was above and beyond normal, tens of the bastards, all bringing trinkets and baubles in exchange for their luck. 

Sünna's suspicions were all but confirmed when Ori arrived that evening, their last vistor of the day; his tribute so large it required four other dwarves to push it into the room on a wheelbarrow, its contents as yet covered by a cloth.

"You must be _very_ desperate for luck to offer such a _large_ gift," Sünna observed, trying to sniff out what the object was but they couldn't smell anything they recognized.

Ori shrugged, still dressed in his soft wools but he'd grown into himself in the last two decades, now standing tall and self-assured.

"Maybe, it is a big adventure I'm of on after all," he replied, keeping as infuriatingly vague as all the others.

"Well, let's see it then," Sünna encouraged, resting their head atop their front legs so as to better look at the object which, when unveiled, turned out to be...a book.

Granted, It was a truly _magnificent_ book. It was large enough for Sünna themselves to read, the pages reinforced so they could be turned with their tail. 

Inside the sumptuous cover was a series of gorgeous charcoal drawings and beautiful calligraphy, detailing the entire quest for Erebor; from its humble beginnings with Sünna's offer to all the way to Thorin's grand coronation.

"This is a remarkable piece of work," Sünna praised, "but it's a strange thing to leave in the care of a _fire_ -breathing dragon."

Ori chuckled, offering another little shrug as he replied. "Or the _best_ thing to leave in the care of a fire-forged _friend_..."

A low, swooping feeling hit Sünna in the stomach, followed by a stone cold realization.

For this was no mere gift.

This was a _goodbye_.

" _Where_ are you going all little scribe? Answer me!" They demanded, feeling so very _powerless_ in the face of this farewell.

But Ori only smiled, his hands clasped loosely before him. "To make _history_... and to keep the record on the way."

Then he approached, resting his ink-stained fingers against Sünna's muzzle for a long moment, so very brave. 

_"Remember me."_

Then just like that he was gone, walking away, sure-footed and proud.

And even the hoards of gold couldn't chase away the chill he'd left behind...  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Balin's expedition wrote letters for a full five years.

Until, one day, they stopped coming.

A scout was sent to investigate after the first three months of silence. 

They did not return.

But the news the mountain _did_ receive only grew darker as time passed; the winters began biting deeper, the roads only grew more dangerous until, on one brutally hot summers day, the mountain received a _new_ messenger.

A rider, cloaked all in black...


	10. Unacceptable Bargains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mountain prepares for war.

The rider came thrice to call at Erebor's gate.

The first time they requested an audience with king Thorin on behalf of Sauron, Lord of the East, here seeking nothing more than information on the whereabouts of one Bilbo Baggins, for who it was known that Thorin was a close associate.

It took every ounce of control Thorin had, and his sister's firm, restraining arm, to _not_ order every archer in the mountain to open fire. 

But he resisted the urge.

Instead, he told the messenger that Erebor was a _merchant_ kingdom and if _Lord_ Sauron desired information, why, he should offer something in trade for it.

Clearly angered, the rider nevertheless rode away, promising to return. 

In the interim Thorin had sent word to both King Thranduil and Queen Sigrid, (Bard having stepped down from the throne two years ago due to his advancing age), to warn them that Sauron had designs against Bilbo and, more than likely, the rest of them as well.

The second time the rider came, four days later, they indeed had an offer to make.

In exchange for information on the whereabouts of Bilbo Baggins, Lord Sauron would _personally_ see to it that the three lost Dwarven rings of power would be returned; and that the line of Durin would have an unchallenged claim to Khazad-düm itself.

Thorin closed his eyes in pain when the rider finished speaking, the fact such a thing could even be _offered_ made it all the more clear that Balin, his oldest and truest friend, had ultimately _failed_ to reclaim their ancient halls.

Perhaps, it was the grief of _that_ loss, more than his pride, that made so _easy_ to reject the rider; Kin had no price and Bilbo Baggins, his One, was far dearer to him then _any_ boon.

And so the rider left once more, declaring that Lord Sauron would have _no_ more friendly dealings with the Durins.

Yet, they returned one, final time but, on this occasion, they had nothing to say to _Thorin._

No. 

They asked to speak to the _dragon_.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Sünna gazed down at the black-cloaked messenger with _palpable_ disdain.

After having been told that their presence had been requested, Sünna had slunk from their hoard to 'greet' said messenger from the gates of Erebor, their tail curled defiantly around their forelegs.

"Speak, _worm_. I have little patience to spare for you." They ordered, drawing a few smiles from the battlements above them, Thorin and his advisors also in attendance.

The messenger hissed, snake-like and corrupted. "Lord Sauron would treat with you dragon, he offers a greater boon than any dwarf could dream to match."

" _Does he?_ " Sünna asked dryly, "is it the rotting fortress in Mirkwood? The stagnant pits of Mordor? A crevice within Mount Doom? Why, _what_ does the _Lord_ of Gifts have to offer _me_?"

The messengers response was briefly drowned out by the cheers and laughter of the watching dwarves, Sünna's own lip curling in spite.

"He offers you _power_ drake!" The messenger snarled, inhuman and furious. "He offers you a hoard free of _dwarves_ , all the world's wealth uncounting, and _freedom_ from that collar about your throat!"

A ringing silence followed, the entire mountain holding its breath as Sünna tilted their head in consideration, their tail rising subconsciously to touch their badge of office.

"Tell me messenger," They asked eventually, eyes narrowing, " _what_ is your name?"

The question seemed to startle the figure, their mount stirring uneasily beneath them. "That is immaterial, I am but a servant of Sauron, I carry out naught but his will, I need nothing so trifling as a _name_."

Question answered, Sünna reared up, their wings flaring out until they filled the great doors, their voice a hurricane. " **My name is Sünna! The last of the Dragons and Holder of the hoard! I WILL be remembered! But NOT as an oathbreaker or a nameless beast in the service of Sauron. Here is my answer!** "

And then the messenger was engulfed in flames, their screams drowned out by the triumphant _roar_ of Durin's folk.

Vindicated, Sünna stepped out of the mountain to look up at the battlements, finding Thorin looking back at them with a savage smile, which they returned with equal satisfaction.

"It seems our 'infestation' has grown on yer after all Beastie," Dwalin called down, delightfully smug.

Sünna rolled their eyes, their smile not fading. "So it seems, ah, if only hair grew so quickly atop your head!" 

"Oh get yer arse up here and say that to my face!" Dwalin threatened, all in play.

"Enough!" Thorin shouted, hating to interrupt the moment but events were quickly spiralling and they needed to plan. "Sünna, get back inside, guards, bar the doors and double the watch. We need to discuss our next steps..."  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
"I'm going!" Gimli declared, volunteering before Thorin had even _finished_ speaking, "l will go to Rivendell!" He reaffirmed, all youthful vigour and determination.

"Then I'm coming to!" Gloin insisted before Thorin could even _blink_ , "yer not ready to go on yer own yet lad."

Gimli visibly deflated and, despite the rather dire circumstances, Thorin had to resist the urge to chuckle. "Very well," he agreed, not willing to argue a point he'd inevitably lose. "Any-"

"-I'm going." Dwalin decided, "otherwise Gloin will make us stop everytime Gimli gets so much as a splinter."

"Why listen here you weasel-faced-"

"-And me." Dis interrupted, effortlessly stepping between the two feuding cousins, her hand resting reassuringly on Gimli's shoulder. "To keep the peace between these two idiots and to bring back the _treasure_ the elves have for safer keeping here."

The siblings shared a significant look at that, Bilbo's true location having been a closely guarded secret between the two of them since the Black Rider had first arrived. 

"Of course," Thorin nodded, needing to say nothing more to his sister, "you will set out in two days time after I have written a letter to Lord Elrond detailing what has happened. You should also take a brief division to Mirkwood, undoubtedly Thranduil will seek the advice of his kin and there is greater safety traveling in numbers."

Gimli groaned at that, "yer can't expect us to go all that way _with_ the leaf-eaters?"

Thorin's resolve finally cracked and he smirked, "yes, I do Gimli son of Gloin and _thank you_ for so nobly volunteering to head this _diplomatic_ envoy."

Gimli's horrified expression drew chuckles out of all of them, even his father, the young dwarf's face turning as vibrant as his hair. "Now go get some rest," Thorin instructed, offering the poor lad _some_ mercy. "There's a lot of work ahead so rest while you can."

Then they all obediently sidled out of the room, leaving Thorin alone with Dis who, immediately, took her brother into his arms as his resolve crumbled.

"Bring him back, _please,_ " Thorin begged, his heart clenched in fear that, _right now,_ Sauron was looking for his love and there was _nothing_ he could do to help him.

"I will." Dis promised, as sure as the mountain beneath her feet.

And Thorin knew, whatever it took, she would see it done.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
The party left Erebor in the small hours, taking advantage of the early rising sun so they could get a headstart on the oncoming shadow. The journey itself was a two month round trip, and that was without including the time they'd spend _in_ Rivendell.

So it was quite a surprise, but a month after their departure to have _Thranduil_ arrive, alone, to Erebor's gates.

But the greater surprise still was _who_ he was there to see...

"You must have a _very_ good reason to _dare_ bother me elf." Sünna noted, glaring down at Thranduil from the highest peak of the hoard.

Although but a blink of time to an immortal, the last three decades had clearly changed Thranduil greatly. 

Gone was the proud, arrogant king who'd marched upon the mountain, who'd sought to threaten it with war. Now stood a quieter but not diminished figure, humbler yes but also _surer_ in himself...

"I have come to bargain with you dragon," Thranduil replied, respectful and proper. "For when war and fire comes to Dale and my halls, I will not have the strength to protect the vulnerable and to fight for our home. And so-" 

He paused, reaching into the satchel at his side and withdrawing a fine oaken box. "-In exchange for your protection of my people and Dale's within your hoard I come to offer you this..."

And then he opened the lid, the White gems of Lasgalen glittering softly in the fire light.

Sünna was so caught off-guard it took them a moment to react, staying silent as they slid closer until they were directly opposite Thranduil, eyes level with where the elfking stood atop the grand staircase.

"You would offer so _easily_ that which you would have once made war for?" They asked, head tilting as they attempted to puzzle out the bewildering thing unravelling before them.

"Yes." Thranduil replied, sounding weary but also at peace with his decision. "I will have the memories for the rest of my life, I _need_ no symbol to remember her."

"And _Him_?" Sünna challenged, not feeling inclined just yet to kindness.

Thranduil closed his ancient eyes, taking a steadying breath before he replied, "I would have him _safe_ , time is already going to take him from me...I will _not_ allow that to be hastened by the Shadow."

Sünna took his measure of a long moment before answering, their words carefully weighted and clear.

"What _value_ can I set against a _memory_?" They asked, their tail flicking up to close the lid. "They all may come and I _shall_ protect them. And _you_ , King Thranduil of the Greenwood, _you_ will carry the knowledge that you were wrong about me until your undoing. There is _no_ greater price then that."

And with those words, Sünna turned away, retreating back to settle atop the hoard.

Leaving Thranduil stood alone, shaken but also...

_Redeemed._  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Two months passed and the mountain never had a moment to rest; the tentative peace of the last few decades was long since shattered and now all hands and minds turned to the oncoming war.

Thorin had been asleep for but an hour, exhausted after another agonizing day when the door to his chambers burst open. Instantly, he was awake, up on his feet, the long knife tucked under his pillow drawn...

...Only to have Bilbo sink into his arms, sobbing and so very _aged_.

Startled, Thorin dropped the knife, arms immediately encircling around the Hobbit, his eyes flicking up to meet the road-worn gaze of his sister in baffled question.

Dis, oh so softly, explained what had happened in Rivendell while Bilbo wept, the revelation of the true nature of Bilbo's lucky ring...and the quest now set out to destroy it. 

"Oh Frodo, oh my dear Frodo," Bilbo gasped when Dis had finished, his voice torn apart by guilt and grief. " _How_ could I have done this to you? How...how could it have c-come to this?"

But Thorin had no answer, his own heart aching with yet _more_ horror, mind too numb to even try and offer any trite words of comfort.

He only held Bilbo tighter as the long night stretched ever onwards, war marching ere closer on the horizon...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ziriah, as always 😘


	11. Into the West

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ringbearers leave Middle-Earth.

The fires were still burning, even though the battle had ended three days ago; the thick, _bitter_ scent of smoke, once again, _choking_ the Lonely Mountain.

But, this time, the Line of Durin remained.

The siege had been near catastrophic, the army of Easterlings having _almost_ broken through Erebor's gates until they were driven back by Dragonfire but not before thousands of Men and Dwarves fell defending their homes.

Amidst all of the carnage, there were only _two_ comforts the Free people could cling too.

The first was that no children died.

For they had been safely kept within the hoard, protected by the might of the Last Dragon who would _never_ have allowed harm to come to their treasures.

And second? Despite the death, despite the _desolation_ , they had _won_. 

It had been sudden; Like the abrupt _give_ of a barred door caving in at long last; Bilbo had nearly collapsed with the force of it, his lungs _finally_ able to fill with air for the first time in _years_.

The Ring was destroyed.

Sauron was defeated.

It was _over._

But the celebrations would need to wait; the dead needed counting, the wounded needed treating and the living needing tending to.

And so Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King under the Mountain, could, for now, only lead his people in song, ere the sun rises.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
In the days that followed, a long, _painful_ process of rebuilding began, much had been destroyed and many hands had been lost. 

Yet rebuild they would.

Slowly, the smiles began to return, the air grew lighter and, two months after the last of fires had died out, Erebor's horns sounded out once more in _warm_ welcome.

Gimli had returned.

But _not_ alone.

"Fifty gold Gloin has a fainting fit," Dwalin muttered to Thorin, the two of them watching the approaching pair from the battlements, Gimli riding proud atop a pony in front of-

"Seventy on the elf having one." Thorin countered with growing amusement as the two riders came to a halt as they were hailed by the gate guard to dismount and be welcome.

"GIMLI!" Came the roar of Gloin, luckily _after_ Gimli had dismounted, his father bounding out of the great doors at full speed. "MY BOY! MY BOY HAS RETURNED!"

Thorin and Dwalin both had to smother their groans as Gloin charged into his son, scooping him up in a hug despite Gilmi's cries of "Pa! Put me down!"

"Here it cooomes~" Dwalin singsonged when Gimli was _finally_ set onto his feet and Gloin turned to face Legolas, who was rather looking like an elf stood at the gallows.

And while the two dwarves couldn't _exactly_ hear what Gimli said it didn't matter, for, a minute later, Gloin was bundling _Legolas_ into a tight, overbearing hug.

"MY SON HAS FOUND HIS ONE! AND A PRINCE AT THAT! I'll NEVER CALL YOU LOT A BUNCH OF FILTHY, TREE SHAGGERS EVER AGAIN!"

And poor, _poor_ Legolas was left utterly shocked, desperately looking around for _any_ rescue...

Which didn't come, as Thorin and Dwalin had ducked out of sight behind the battlements, shaking with laughter as Gloin continued to let the entire Rhovanion know that Gimli had returned.

"Make-Make Gloin the new ambassador to the Greenwood." Thorin instructed Dwalin as soon as he'd _barely_ caught his breath, voice still slightly trembling. "And-and send Thranduil ten casks of our _strongest_ ale, he's going to-to _need_ it."

And then the two old friends were laughing again and, for a moment, all was right with the world.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
But it couldn't last long.

For, as cursed and as foul as the Ring had been, it was also the only thing keeping Bilbo's age at bay and now it was gone.

Thorin had three months with him before the truth become undeniable, Bilbo was fading, all of those years carrying the Ring had left a mark _deep_ within the Hobbit's soul, far deeper than anything on this earth could heal.

And so, with a _heavy_ heart, Bilbo accepted Gandalf's offer and travelled to the Grey Havens, Thorin at his side every step of the way.

It was truly beautiful here, the draw the elves were said to feel to the sea become infinitely more understandable now Thorin stood at the shore, the Ringbearers preparing to depart Middle Earth for the final time.

"One last adventure," Bilbo breathed softly, his wrinkled hand gently stroking Thorin's cheek as Frodo said his own goodbyes to those behind him.

"Nasty things those, make you late for tea," Thorin replied with a choked voice, his raven hair now fully turned to silver, time having not waited for him either.

"They're not _so_ bad," Bilbo replied, tears running down his cheeks, "depends on the Company."

Thorin chuckled despite himself, his own hands trembling. "And how _was_ our company?"

"Oh the absolute _worst_ there ever was, you lot _ruined_ me forever." Bilbo complained before pressing his lips to Thorin's, lingering as long as he could.

"Bilbo," Gandalf interrupted gently, "it's time."

The two parted with a shuddering breath, both openly crying now. "Well...I'm off." Bilbo tried to say lightly but his voice broke before he could.

"You are," Thorin tried to reassure, despite the ache in his heart. "But we have one last matter to settle Master Baggins."

And then a rich, velvet pouch was being pressed into Bilbo's hands, the Arkenstone gleaming softly within.

"Your fourteenth share," Thorin explained at Bilbo's look, "I'm so sorry it took so long."

And then they were hugging, so tightly as if to defy the Shadow itself.

But, as all things must, it came to an end and Bilbo boarded the boat at Frodo's side before he lost the strength to do so.

"Tharkûn!" Thorin called, catching the wizard before he also boarded.

"Yes, master Oakenshield?" He asked, eyes twinkling.

"I have something for you," Thorin replied before handing Gandalf a pouch of his own, smaller and flatter then Bilbo's, the king's eyes _daring_ the wizard to argue.

But, after examining the contents of the pouch, Gandalf did not. 

Instead, he smiled, looking somehow _beautiful_ in that moment. 

"And so the strange road has been walked, hmm, but the Road has not yet been _flown_." He winked before tapping his nose as if telling Thorin a secret. 

"Fare thee well, Thorin Oakenshield."

Thorin bowed his head respectfully and took a step back, leaving the gangplank. "Fare the well Tharkûn, may your beard grow ever long!"

And then the ship set sail, heading out under the light of the setting sun.

Thorin watched until it had vanished out of sight, disappearing at a point far on the horizon, gone from this world.

He lingered a moment longer before he turned, joining the remaining hobbits, his sister and Dwalin only slightly further up the shore.

It was time for him to head home.


	12. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The End.

Thorin's funeral was a suitably grand affair even though his passing had been a private, peaceful one; simply falling asleep at his desk, never to wake.

Fili, heir apparent, had fully grown into his role and now stood as a proud beacon of hope for his people. His little brother, ever loyal, ever mischievous at his side, elven marriage braids tucked deep into his hair.

The funeral lasted three days, as was tradition; With the first day devoted to grief, the second to remembrance and the third to joy. A life lived, mourned and celebrated by all before the dwarf in question was at last committed to the Stone.

Alas, it seemed the third day brought no joy to Dwalin.

"You're going to make all of the wine in Erebor jealous should you keep looking so sour," Sünna drawled as Fili's daughter clambered across their back. She, and the other children present, were playing a grand game of tag while their parents drank and danced in the halls above.

"Fuck off," Dwalin grouched, far older now, his joints stiffer, his beard white but his voice remained ever the same.

"Language." Sünna tutted, effortlessly catching one of the children who tried to clamber too high upon their neck and slipped, their tail having been made gentle after years of practice. 

"There are _children_ present." They chided, setting the giggling child down before urging the rest to scurry off and play in the wider hoard.

"Now, what's this _really_ all about?"

But before Dwalin could answer, Sünna stole the bottle of ale he'd been holding with a smirk.

"Aha, payment up front~"

Dwalin growled at them, crossing his arms in a huff.

"Yer wouldn't understand, I was meant to _protect_ him and now he's-ow!"

Dwalin broke of, having been swatted by a very unimpressed Sünna.

" _That's_ why you're sulking? _Honestly_ Dwalin, you never could've stopped him from _dying_ , mortal as you are. All _you_ had to do was keep him alive until he could die in the place he most wished to. And you _succeeded_ last I checked? Or should Thorin have died tragically in battle just to make your misplaced guilt more dramatic?"

"...You're a right piece of work aren't you Beastie?" Dwalin grumbled but he did soften considerably, fondness creeping into his tone.

Sünna preened at the compliment, rising up on their forelegs to tower over him. " _Yes_ , and don't you forget it."

"Believe you me, I haven't." Dwalin sassed, now openly smiling.

"Then I have but one thing to say to you Dwalin son of Fundin," Sünna declared, grand and magnificent.

"And what's that exactly?"

Sünna smirked, leaning closer as if to whisper a secret.

" _...Tag_." 

And then they were poking Dwalin with their tail before taking off across the hoard, the children squealing as they tried to run away from the elder dwarf, Sünna's laughter echoing loud and joyful.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
But, as all children must, they grew up; Generation after generation passing through the hoard, first in play, then for advice before, finally, bringing children of their own.

And Sünna was there for all of them, watching them grow, thrive and then pass away, one by one. 

All of the original company had been long gone for years now, Dwalin holding out to the last through sheer stubbornness, Fili having passed but ten years after him and Kili thirteen after that.

Their children also came and went, but in fewer and fewer numbers until at last, Dis, fifteenth of her noble grandmother's name, declared that Erebor was simply too large for the few remaining dwarves. 

And so, it was decided that their people would relocate South to the Glittering Caves to live out their remaining days.

But, before their departure, the dwarves of Erebor had _one_ last thing to attend to...  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
The mountain was completely silent.

It had come to pass exactly as Sünna had protected all those years ago, they'd outlasted them _all_ and there was _nothing_ in the way of their victory now.

Why, the dwarves _themselves_ had even adapted the vents before they'd left, ensuring Sünna could operate them by themselves. 

Not to mention the natural drinking fountains they'd installed over the years or the wild mountain goats especially bred for Sünna to hunt.

Why, they could stay in the mountain forever! 

No other dragons remained to challenge them after all, no other dwarves would ever come on a _mad_ quest to reclaim their homeland.

It was just _them_ and the gold.

Completely alone.

 _Forever..._  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Sünna only lasted a year before the isolation proved too much, the gold having grown so very _cold_ in the dwarves absence.

They had the hoard, yes, but they'd _lost_ their _home_.

But they were a _Dragon_.

And _nobody_ , not even Death itself, would _steal_ from _them._

And so, as the sun began to rise, Sünna turned to their hoard for their last time, carefully setting Ori's book, now cracked and yellowed with age, atop its highest peak.

They paused for a long moment before they slid their badge of office, now little more than an old rag, from their throat and carefully draped it across the book, their duty having come to an end.

Then, with a final, _defiant_ roar, Sünna turned and left the mountain, the sun at their back as they took of, flying Westwards until the warm, ocean breeze curled about their wings.

They were going to find their home or _die_ trying...


	13. Epilogue

Thorin came to slowly, feeling most... _odd_ , lighter yet somehow more... _grounded_ , his chest rising and falling with steady, easy breaths.

_"Name: Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror nee Oakenshield."_

There was a sound somewhere behind him but Thorin couldn't _quite_ process what it was just yet, his senses dulled, confused, as though he'd just awoken from a long nap.

_"Age: 281"_

The sound continued, becoming clearer, a scratching noise interspersed with a _voice_. Thorin began to stir, his spine cracking, fingers flexing, feeling so very _young_ again, all of his aches but a memory.

_"Occupation: King, former."_

Wait. 

That wasn't just any mere _voice_ , that was a voice he _knew_.

_"Cause of Death: Heart attack from overwork despite repeated warnings from the late seneschal-_

_"Balin."_  
_"Balin."_

The scratching paused, a warm smile in Balin's voice. "Aye, laddie. And let me be the first to say: I told you so."

And then Thorin was on his feet and in Balin's arms his friend whole and hale, _warm_ to the touch and _there_.

"Shush, shush, shush," Balin soothed as Thorin cried, quieting his desperate apologies. "Easy now lad, _easy,_ there's no rush, you've _all_ the time in the world..."  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
The storm gathered so quickly that Sünna had no time to avoid it.

They'd been but _moments_ from either falling behind or crossing the horizon before it was all lost amidst black, _choking_ cloud. 

The wind grew viscous, nearly throwing them off course completely, the sudden rain so heavy they nearly drowned in mid-air, barely able to _breathe_.

But on they flew, faster and faster, the sea lost beneath them for the storm.

And then _agony_ , the rain giving way to thick, razor sharp hail stones that _ripped_ through them; the cruel, serrated edges _stripping_ Sünna until there was _nothing_ left but their raw, grey scales.

Exhausted, lost and _so_ very far from home they _fell_ , down and _down_ , the ocean _roaring_ in fury below them.

Until they came to a sudden, brutal _stop_...

Upon solid ground.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Balin had been but the first of _hundreds_.

His mother, his brother, his father, his _grandfather_ , all there, all _safe_ within Mahal's Halls, never to suffer ever again.

Thorin was lost in a daze of joy, falling into embrace after embrace until he were near dizzy. In the end, Balin had to come to his rescue before he lost himself all together, his old friend taking his arm and leading him away from the main feast hall with a wink.

"Did you know Mahal has me keeping the census of all the dead dwarves now." Balin noted breezily as he lead Thorin deeper and deeper through the golden, winding corridors.

"Surely He doesn't _need_ you to?" Thorin asked, lost both physically and conversationally.

"Oh probably not, keeps me busy though. It's all _very_ interesting, we're an inventive lot when it comes to dying. Why, I had a young dwarf yesterday who died after eating an entire barrel of-"

 _"Balin."_ Thorin interrupted, growing impatient despite himself. " _Where_ are we going?"

"Oh, just here," Balin reassured, slowing down as they reached the final corridor. "Do you want to know the _second_ best part of this job? _I_ get to decide _how_ people are recorded on the forms."

And then they turned the last corner only for Thorin to stop _dead_.

A green, _round_ door waiting ahead of him...which opened a second later, the healthy, _young_ face of Bilbo Baggins peeking around it in clear irritation.

"You're _late_ for tea you know," he sniffed, opening the door fully, arms crossed over his chest but he was _smiling_.

And Thorin could only smile back...  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Sünna stirred slowly, the pain of their desperate flight having vanished.

"Ah, _there_ you are, we were starting to wonder if you'd ever arrive." Said a vaguely familiar, almost _amused_ voice.

Sünna hissed, slowly opening their eyes only to close them again immediately, _blinded_ by the bright, _beautiful_ light of-

("Steady now, you've flown an _awfully_ long way.")

The Sun.

It was the _sun_ and it was so very _warm_...

Sünna scrambled up onto their forelegs, stretching towards the warmth, their scales aglow and _silver_.

A warm chuckle interrupted them and they looked down, finding the speaker to their left, their eyes narrowing in recognition.

_"Tharkûn."_

Gandalf winked up at them, beautiful and resplendent in white yet as insolent as ever.

"Is it too late to fly back?" Sünna asked dryly, shifting around then lying flat on their belly so as better to address the Wizard.

Gandalf laughed, "Oh I should think so my dear, after _all_ the trouble you've caused, you should've _heard_ the arguments we've been having about you."

A coil of fear threatened to choke Sünna at that comment.

"Am I to be killed?" They asked, sharp and despairing.

"Who's to say you're not already dead?" Gandalf asked with an 'innocent' little shrug.

Sünna snorted, "I _made_ that flight thank you, at least let me have _that_ if you are to slay me."

Gandalf chuckled, withdrawing a pouch from his robes as he spoke, "I suppose it's neither here nor there for you are _somewhere_ dead or not. Only...part of you arrived here a long time ago."

And then he withdrew from the pouch their scale, their _oath_.

" _Thorin._ " Sünna realized, voice choked with emotion.

"Yes, it seems the Dwarves have grown _very_ fond of you... and Aluë does so love their children."

Sünna gasped, _hope_ surging in their breast. "Do you mean to say that-"

"Yes." Gandalf nodded with a brilliant smile. "Come, follow me." 

And then he turned, the land seeming to shift, dreamlike around them until they reached a pair of colossal, metal doors so tall that the tops were lost to the sky.

But, on closer inspection, these doors were made of no mere metal but were instead made of _uncountable_ names, all weaved together with gaps awaiting those who had yet to reach the Halls.

And before one such gap, nestled deep within the Line of Durin, Gandalf stopped, setting Sünna's scale to be into place.

A breath and the scale glowed _gold_ and the mighty doors _opened_ , swinging inwards to a _burst_ of laughter and light.

And in Sünna walked, warm and _welcome_.

They were home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we made it! 😊
> 
> Thank you so, so much to everyone who stuck with me all this way, it's been an awesome ride.
> 
> And, one last time, Ziriah, thank you for everything. 💖


End file.
